It's Sunnier When the Fog Rolls In
by MargaeryMargarine
Summary: Due to medical issues and previous clashes with the Council, Natasha and Clint were sent to San Francisco for two months of quiet recovery after the Manhattan battle. Their trust already tense, when would it break when she continued to test its limits? [Sequel to An Odd Hypothetical Question, though you can get by without reading it for the 1st few chapters.]
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

**A/N:** Hey guys! As I said in the summary this is a sequel piece, which is currently under rewriting. For the first few chapters of this fic there will only be hints at what the last one was about, then when we start hitting the middle there'll be direct references (OCs, plot influence, etc) that will be difficult to understand if you haven't read AOHQ (Which covers Iron Man 2 to The Avengers, Nat's POV). For returning readers, I really hope you'll like this one!

This story starts at approximately a week after the Manhattan battle.

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*_*—*_*—*_*

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The car didn't start up when they returned to it from the corner store.

"Battery's dead." Sitwell wriggled out of the driver's seat to the head of the car and lifted the hood. "Jump-start... how the hell am I gonna get this jump-started..."

Natasha didn't budge from the sidewalk. Sitwell deserved this. Who would stop within a mile of their destination to drop into the nearest grocer for a late-night snack?

"Call towing." She opened the trunk, hoisted a backpack onto her shoulder and tossed the other to Clint, slipped her hand into his and tugged, but he needed no encouragement to comply to her plan.

"Hey, hey. Where are you two going?"

"Can't be late. We gotta make a good impression." Her voice rang flat in the still night.

"But I need Agent Lin's signature! It's mandatory!"

Natasha ignored Sitwell and broke into a jog, rounding the first turn ahead. He wouldn't tail them. He'd probably call Autozone and go back to complain to Fury at S.H.I.E.L.D. The stiffness in her knees and thighs from being cramped in the car loosened with each clap of her shoes on the ground. Block after block. Clap and clap and clap and clap. The further they ran the more uninviting the San Franciscan wind grew, crashing into her, piercing the flimsy cardigan she wore. Too bad. In a haste to get rid of Sitwell she had left her jacket in his car.

"Maybe we—shouldn't have—ditched—him," Clint said, his voice disconnected like a bad radio reception, in beat with his steps.

"You wanted him to drop us off?"

"We gotta do this—proper, Nat. We can't just—"

"Too late."

At the next intersection the street dipped and climbed, hill after hill. Halfway down the slope they stopped in front of one of the box-like houses, gray paint crackling and scabbing on the walls. The windows were dark, curtains drawn.

Natasha climbed the stairs on the side and rang the doorbell.

"You think this is ridiculous," Clint said.

"Yes."

"Fury's made worse decisions."

"Like what?"

"You know the answer to that question better than I do."

They stood outside the door for three minutes. Four. Five. Natasha took out her phone and called, but no one picked up. She looked behind at Clint. He shrugged.

She knocked, then, reaching pass the metal gate to rap her knuckles against the white wooden door, and the hollow sound it made gave away that the house inside was hollow also, devoid of human presence. That couldn't be right. Her phone read 12:37 a.m.

"Stop. Stop knocking." A voice commanded from behind them—female, brittle like a stack of porcelain plates clattering to the floor. "Get down here. Get down, get down."

A murky figure planted herself by the sidewalk, one hand raised and flapping. Stepping down the brick stairs, Natasha and Clint stood in front of the woman, and the latter extended his hand first.

"Agent Lin, we're sor—"

"Drop the 'Agent', I'm retired." She gave them the most lifeless of handshakes.

Lin dug into her purse, and after some rummaging the clinking of a key chain surfaced. With a beckoning finger she led the two agents to the side door on the street level. "Where's your supervisor?" She looked them up and down.

"He had some problems with the car," Natasha said.

"Too bad."

The garage smelled of old paint. When Lin switched on the light and proceeded to open the second set of doors to the basement, the light brought out the white wisps that peeked out from her short, black permed curls. She turned and the light shone on her face, outlining the slight crinkling above her puffy cheeks. "Outside." She held up a key. "Inside." She held up another, and dropped both into Natasha's hand.

The basement was an ancient ruin: a small bathroom by the entrance, a set of stairs leading upstairs next to it; the remaining space divided into two doorless rooms, the carpet underfoot challenging any ideas of walking barefoot. One room had no furniture. The other had a small table leaning against the corner of the far wall, a double bed parked next to it.

"I've just one proper bed," Lin said. "Extra mattress in the closet there." She pointed to the other room. "I'll explain the rest tomorrow."

And with that she creaked up the indoor stairs. A moment later the door slammed. The walls seemed to shake.

The bed, unlike the rest of this tomb, thankfully, looked almost new. Clint settled on its edge, unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down to his knees. The bitter tang of alcohol wipes dispersed into the air. Natasha busied herself with changing into an old shirt and a pair of shorts from her backpack, flicking her gaze every few seconds to the metal box he unlocked. Only when he had finished and dropped the used syringe into a red sharps container did she approach and sit next to him.

"Three." Clint rattled the container. His voice was hoarse.

"Let's hope we get out of here before you add a zero to the end of three." Natasha scooted closer. "This wasn't what I had in mind for an 'observation period.'"

"It could be worse."

"Go to sleep."

He shrugged, pulled his pants off rest of the way and tossed them onto that dirty carpet, then swung his legs onto the bed and threw a thin gray blanket over himself. Asleep in moments. A twinge of envy dug into her chest. Natasha flipped over onto her stomach beside him to try and smother that ugly feeling, but it only sharpened; drilled deeper.

At least it kept her awake.

After a night of tapping away at her Tetris app, and the dusty blinds above her head began to lighten, Natasha slipped her phone under the pillow and waited. Within a half hour Clint stirred, shifted around until he rolled the entire blanket around himself, and stretched. An arm stuck out from his loose cocoon and rubbed his eyes.

He gave a loud, swallowing exhale, and the mattress shifted under her. Natasha closed her eyes.

A warm light fabric fluttered down on her body. Something—a hand—poked her side as it tucked the cloth in. Then it left her alone. A minute later the sink in the bathroom began to gush.

Natasha rolled over on her back and let loose the yawn she had held back all night; this was the only time she could yawn without looking suspicious. Clint didn't need to know a thing.

"You awake?" he called, barely audible over the rush of water.

"Yeah." She yawned again.

"Sorry."

"No, it's ok. I slept enough."

"This mirror's got stuff stuck to it."

"We gotta clean anyway." Natasha got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where Clint leaned in to the mirror, his fingernail grating against some white spots, making the glass squeak.

"I'll do it." She budged him aside. A stained towel hung off the rail on the shower door. Natasha dropped it into the sink, then wrung it out and used it to scrub down the mirror. A vacuum cleaner whirred on the other side of the door, sucking up (she hoped) every bit of chipped paint and sand and who-knew-what-else that latched onto the tan carpet like ticks.

After she finished with the mirror, Natasha filled a bucket and carried it to the only window in the basement: the blackboard-sized piece of glass on the wall facing the backyard, above where the bed stood. Up went the blinds in a frightened flurry of dust, and it was another round of scrubbing.

"Well, that's a nice view," she muttered. An abundance of half-dead weeds and thorns hoarded the space where grass should grow.

The sound of the vacuum cleaner neared. Clint's reflection magnified on the glass. "Matches the inside."

Hollow footsteps on the staircase. Lin stationed herself at its bottom, and in the bright sunlight Natasha finally got her first clear look of the retired agent: tired eyes that she didn't know how to hide, cheeks tinted a suspicious pink, jade bangles cuffing the hand on her plump hips. Lin glanced around the basement, nodding, swiveling her head like a security camera.

"Morning," Natasha said.

Lin strode to them, still nodding. "Didn't need the extra mattress?"

"No."

"Figured out the bathroom?"

"It's fine."

The wine on her breath explained her blush. Lin sat on the edge of the bed and massaged her knees with her palms. "They call this neighborhood Sunnyside." She pointed out the window at the fog-soaked houses and trees. "Someone had a bit too much to drink."

And Lin kept talking, more to the alcohol coursing through her system than to Natasha and Clint. "Have you ever been to S.H.I.E.L.D Academy?" she asked. "Took three years off my life, and I only taught the introductory data analysis class, which supposedly had some of the calmest students." Lin paused to think. "They weren't bad, they were nice kids. They were nice, nice kids. Some of them made it into prestigious operations. Project Sailboat. Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S..." she trailed off. Her eyes filmed over with a faraway look. She gripped her jade bangles.

"I'm going up," she muttered. "Left the radio on."

Natasha couldn't hear any radio.

The stairs creaked as Lin went up. The door clicked closed.

"She knew someone from P.E.G.A.S.U.S," Clint said.

"Not uncommon. Lots of people do." Natasha redirected her focus to the wet towel in her hand and resumed scrubbing the window.

There wasn't much left to clean.

Clint wrenched the rusty back door open, but didn't go out. Natasha peeked from behind him. Dried-up gray vines studded with thorns overflowed the threshold, threatening to climb indoors. She'd seen neglected gardens before, but never this bad.

"You wanna do some shopping?" Natasha asked. "We gotta eat."

He shook his head, closed the door and hooked his arm around her waist, pulling her down onto the bed with him. Lying on her back, Natasha draped her arm over her forehead, utilizing the shadows to hide the ones that might be under her eyes.

Clint knocked her arm away and tilted her face so she'd look at him.

"You didn't sleep well."

"Still trying to take in everything."

"It's not fair, I know," he said, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. "That I get a free pass with the meds. If—"

"I don't want you on the medication."

"You know how bad it gets if I'm not taking them."

"Why tell me something I know?"

Clint took his hand off her face. "Why make me do something I can't do?"

Natasha rolled onto her side to face the wall. Every night he jabbed those loathed needles into himself she felt like they jabbed into her, too. Having him admit his dependence on them felt worse.

The mattress rocked once, and the heat of his body burned on her back, like sitting too close to an open fire.

"I know... I know you don't want—that it's—" A ragged exhale brushed the back of her neck. "I don't want to press, Natasha. But—"

"Some things I'd rather do alone, Clint."

No reply. His weight lifted from the bed, his heat from her body, and her back felt oddly cold. Natasha turned her head.

His movements sharp, Clint threw on a jacket and grabbed their only keys from the table. "At least you have the choice," he said. "I'm doing shopping."

He came back later with paper bags of stuff they had no place to put, and dropped a newly-copied set of keys into her lap. Before she could get in a word he left again, and this time he didn't tell her where he was going.

So that's how they'd be.

After a while her phone rang. Natasha fetched it from under her pillow, hoping it'd be Clint, but frowned when she saw the caller's name on the screen.

"Director Fury."

"Why'd you ditch Sitwell's ass?"

"He'd have slowed us down, Director."

"He had a car."

"One with a dead battery."

"I don't need you playing smart with me, Romanoff. You still had to stick to him. You're in no position to pull anymore stunts. Just because the Council let you go doesn't mean they don't got their eyes on you."

"Yes, Director."

"Is Barton ok?"

"Yeah, he's fine."

"He won't pick up his cell."

Natasha tried Clint's number after Fury hung up. No response.

Lin visited again that afternoon, changed into street clothes with the wind's disturbance in her hair. She entered from the garage. "Where's Barton?" Her easy, meandering tone had evaporated since morning, her voice tightening again.

"He went out," Natasha replied.

"Why aren't you? He should be the one cooped up. Until the check-in session next week, at least."

"Confinement's got nothing to do with it."

"Then why are you confining yourself? Fury could have easily landed you two in some boring old countryside. You got San Francisco. I'm not here to hold your hand and walk you through a tour."

There was a knock at the front, a humming bang against the garage door. "Florence!" a male voice called.

"Jesus Christ," Lin muttered and went to open the door.

Natasha stayed behind and waited for Lin to deal with the visitor.

"Aw, man. We had the greatest trip." The new voice, thick with a Spanish accent, grew closer, inside now. "It didn't rain this year. Lord is good."

"You say that on every trip with those elementary brats." Lin sounded like she needed a nap. "Get out. I'll open the front door."

"Nah, it's fine. What are you doing down here?" A laugh. "Gardening?"

"I have guests," she grumbled.

"You didn't tell me!"

"You spent a week playing Tarzan with your little monkeys."

The basement door swung open. "Hello!" The man that came through had bulging backpacks on his back and front, and two more hooking on the crooks of his arms. Like boulders they tumbled onto the floor. Sweat soaked the front of his white t-shirt. He smiled with his whole set of teeth exposed, and his hand shot forth to Natasha. "My name's Alvaro."

"Hi." She smiled and shook his hand. Warm and firm and—were those colored-marker streaks on his fingers? "I'm Natalie."

Alvaro looked over her shoulder at the bags and the clothes strewn around the bed. "You staying long?"

"Coupla months."

"Flo could do so much better with fixing this place up. You from around here?"

"New York."

Alvaro's eyes widened. "Did you live in Manhattan?"

"No." She laughed. "I didn't see any superheroes. Sorry."

"Oh that's alright. I saw them on T.V. Iron Man." He bent and slung his bags over his body. "Look, Natalie, I'd love to talk more, but I got my kid sitting on the stairs outside an' all this camping stuff I need to sort out at home. I visit Flo every Friday so I'll see you around."

Lin groaned. "Stop calling me that."

After Alvaro left, she did, too, leaving Natasha alone again. Grudgingly, she rummaged through the food and supplies Clint had brought back on his first trip out: corn flakes, granola bars, coffee, a carton of milk that would have spoiled if she didn't rush it to the fridge in the garage; plastic spoons and forks and cups, toothbrushes and toothpaste, soap, and a crushed roll of today's paper.

Stark's face took up the front, with the headline **Billionaire Tony Stark Talks the Avengers and Ambitions for Stark Industries** straddling the width of the page.

More like "Pepper Potts Talks," but the New York battle and his promise on chasing after Jericho had illuminated a corner of Stark that she hadn't seen before. Maybe she had always known it, that he had more going on about him than snide comments and ego issues. Did she want to admit it? No.

Natasha tossed the newspaper back into the bag.

The hours crawled from afternoon into evening. Lin's Chinese drama blasted from upstairs in a mix of shrill conversations and soft piano soundtracks. Natasha dug into a bowl of milk and cornflakes and waited. Where did Clint go? She typed half a text message before backspacing it all, and tossed her phone into a burrow of crumpled shirts. Having someone control another part of his life was the last thing he needed... Plus, his phone's probably still off.

It was approaching midnight when she heard the ring of keys. He entered without a word and headed straight for the shower. When he came out ten minutes later, damp hair spiky and glistening, he promptly got into bed, curled up on his side, and draped an arm over Natasha. She was lying on her stomach, giving the Tony Stark newstory another chance. He pulled her close. The shampoo smell on him grew stronger.

"Where'd you go?" she asked.

"Around." Clint stretched to turn off the lamp.

Natasha slipped the newspaper under her pillow. If he didn't want to tell her, fine; her concerns concentrated elsewhere, anyway. She couldn't stay awake forever, and from the looks of it he'd make sure she slept tonight. Maybe she should tell him. Tell him why he'd do better to leave her alone. But what good would that do? Telling him would mean uprooting a barrier between them that she tried to ignore.

The moonshine filtering through the window cast a blue, almost opaque glow over his eyes.

She let her bedraggled consciousness go with a shiver.

—

Snapping awake some hours later, Natasha held her breath and fixed her eyes on the first thing in sight: the mute color of the too-hot pillow under her cheek. Slowly she let her breath go and waited for her heartbeat to quieten. Her throat felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of sand, her body twitched with shivers.

She didn't expect to be caught off-guard by something she had thought and dreaded about for days.

For the entire week after Manhattan her sleep had came either from fatigue and shock or from the IV drugs Fury had insisted upon, after sitting by her hospital bed in the hidden room behind his office. He knew the nightmares would hit; Fury knew everything. Now she had but herself and it wasn't enough.

Her eyes traveled up. Clint was awake. Staring at her. With the moonlight tingeing his face silver, the crisp indifference in his expression made her pulse shoot up again. He observed her the way cats did from afar, keeping his limbs to himself, gray-blue irises dissecting and analyzing. That look on his face hit her harder than any murky remnants of the nightmare did.

"How long have you been awake, Clint?" Natasha held still under the sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

**A/N: **Took a while to update, sorry! I started my art summer school last week (CSSSA) and it's taking up a lot of my free time.

I know, a lot of people don't care for OCs, but I only do ones that are critical to plot, so all the new people I'm introducing will have major impact in the future. Just a heads up :)

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**Previously:**

Her eyes traveled up. Clint was awake. Staring at her. With the moonlight tingeing his face silver, the crisp indifference in his expression made her pulse shoot up again. He observed her the way cats did from afar, keeping his limbs to himself, gray-blue irises dissecting and analyzing. That look on his face hit her harder than any murky remnants of the nightmare did.

"How long have you been awake, Clint?" Natasha held still under the sheets.

* * *

He didn't answer. The calculating hunger on him flashed red lights behind her eyes. She didn't need his answer to know that he had stayed awake too long.

Natasha got up and out of bed as unremarkably as she could to the table, where he had stashed the box of filled syringes last night.

"So that's what it is." He didn't sound like himself. "Don't you get tired? Shutting your mouth like that all the time and not telling anyone _shit_?"

Using her body to block his view, she lifted the lid on the box and extracted a syringe from its compartment, then slipped it under the waistband of her shorts, smoothing her shirt over to cover. She blocked out the half-taunting, half-spurring commentaries he proceeded to make about her and set one knee, then her other, onto the mattress, the springs underneath squeaking like a strained note.

Clint stopped talking. He leaned away from her, his eyes darting as she stalked closer.

The moment she lunged forward he kicked. Natasha grabbed his leg and pinned it under her knee, then whipped the syringe from her waistband. His free leg jabbed into her stomach. Gasping, she jumped. He used the chance to push her off of him. She slammed onto her back and her head knocked onto the edge of the bed. His weight fell onto her lower half, locking her in place, and with one hand he pried her hand for the syringe, the other bracing her free arm onto the mattress.

His fingers clawed at hers, preying after the small plastic tube she gripped. She managed to bring her fist to her chest and pounded her knuckles into his jaw. His hold on her other hand loosened and she hooked her elbow to the back of his neck and yanked him down onto her; squeezed her eyes shut for a second as he thrashed and panted against her neck. With a flick of her thumb Natasha uncapped the syringe. She jerked his T-shirt sleeve over his shoulder and jabbed the needle into his upper arm.

Clint stopped struggling as she pushed the plunger. He slumped onto her, his weight like a boulder dropping from the top of a cliff, forcing the air from her lungs. His heart jumped against her chest, his breaths still fast but slowing. Slowing down. Natasha withdrew the needle from his arm and tossed the syringe off the bed and rubbed his back, the heel of her palm kneading slow circles, trying to relax his back muscles, relax herself.

She couldn't breath right with his face up against her throat but she stayed put. Carefully, still holding him, she sat up, unraveled her legs from under his and drew her knees up to press the warmth of her thighs against his kneeling body and secure him. His hair tickled her nose and held the clean scent of shampoo. Natasha bent down to kiss where she had punched his jaw, tasting the saltiness of sweat on his overheating skin.

For the rest of the night-hours—and they didn't have many left before the sun rose—Clint stayed in her arms, drowsy, but wouldn't close his eyes. Wouldn't look at her, either. His head fixed to the direction of the window, out at the stuffy, heavy cloak of gray fog that began to roll over the waking landscape. A single silhouetted bird flew by. It squawked—a raven—and dove into the thick of a tree, shaking the bone-like branches.

—

The nightmares worsened tomorrow—the dream events sprang new branches and increased in vividity, and now Natasha wasn't so lucky to wake up with just a hammering in her heart. She jerked awake, eyes wide open, seeing more of the Helicarrier and the chaos than the darkness around her.

Natasha wiped the sweat from her upper lip. She twisted around to tug open the window above the bed and let the chilly breeze swish through and blow hair over her eyes. Her throat felt like she had swallowed sawdust. In the biggest, most exaggerated motion possible, she swung her body forward into a sitting position and scooted to the edge of the bed—Clint wouldn't wake, anyway—to grab the water bottle on the adjacent table.

The water trickled down her throat in an icy stream. After having enough to cool her mind, Natasha looked at Clint, who lay next to her with his arms spread out, a knee tenting the sheets. After the incident yesterday he dared not stretch the injection times. Before they slept tonight and right after he had stabbed himself with the needle, he had held her tight against his chest and kissed her all over her face, before drowsiness overtook, and his embrace slackened. The medication rendered him in such complete exhaustion for the first few hours it alarmed her.

And maybe, just maybe, it disappointed her.

The next morning came the first check-in session from S.H.I.E.L.D. A sleek, black car pulled up their driveway, the S.H.I.E.L.D logo a matte gray on its flanks. Natasha stood by the house's open door, waiting. A woman emerged from the driver's seat, adjusted the silver briefcase in her hand, and clicked the car door shut. The restrained palette of black and white and grays and blues allowed as formal S.H.I.E.L.D attire exceeded its potential on her blazer and pencil skirt, the thin gold band of her watch gleamed in the sun against dark brown skin. She waved with the hand not holding her briefcase.

"Agent Hayes." Natasha greeted with the customary handshake.

Once inside, Hayes sat across the table that Clint had pulled from its corner and gave a more thorough introduction of herself. "My name is Antoinette Hayes, I'm from the psychiatric department of S.H.I.E.L.D Trauma Zentrum in Switzerland." She removed a laptop from her briefcase and began typing on it. "This is a two-month cognitive behavioral therapy trial in which we—"

"Trial?" Clint interrupted.

"Well, yes." Hayes looked up, flashed a quick smile, and resumed typing. "The structure and methods we'll be using are too loose and nonconforming to all other treatments for much reference. Mind-control via glowing sticks isn't a regular curriculum at S.H.I.E.L.D, as you know. Although we are putting it on the list"

"You're saying there's nothing else like it? At all?"

"The closest match is scopolamine drugging."

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Well." Hayes blinked. "Let's carry on." She spun the laptop around ninety degrees. A beam of light shot from the top of the screen and projected its images onto the white wall. Line graphs and bar graphs. A cluster of numbers ticked by the milliseconds near the bottom right corner.

"These stats came from your tracking bracelet. And right—here..." She fished out a laser pointer from her blazer pocket and circled the red dot around a trench on the bar graph. "Monday, May 26th. Serotonin levels plummeted."

"Barton forgot to take the medication." Natasha jumped in.

Hayes frowned. "This shouldn't be something to just... _forget._ I expected a much more qualified answer. And Agent Barton can speak for himself, thank you."

"It wouldn't happen again," Clint muttered.

Hayes took out a headset and a blocky pair of simulation glasses from that never-ending briefcase and placed them in front of him. "I'm going to play a series of visual and audio triggers based on your brain scans' results and the descriptions you provided us. I'll keep playing down the list until you feel like you need to stop, ok?"

"Ok."

Clint eased the headset over his ears and put on the glasses on. His hand sought Natasha's out under the table.

"Ready?" Hayes asked.

"Yeah."

Hayes clicked away on her laptop.

Five seconds passed.

Seven.

Ten.

His hand squeezed Natasha's.

"Clint," she said. Then, remembering that he couldn't hear nor see her, Natasha offered what alternative support she could and stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. It didn't seem to do much. Oh, how useless she felt. There he sat, back strained straight, jaw working, no doubt biting the inside of his cheeks into a bloody mess, and she could not help. What did Hayes show him? Make him listen to?

Fifteen seconds.

Hayes spun her laptop around so Natasha could see. A white loading bar stretched across the white screen; a measly gray bar crawled about one-tenth of the white, struggling to the other end, but it looked like it wouldn't get any further today with him clenching Natasha's hand so hard.

Twenty seconds.

"Stop," he stammered.

Another flurry of typing on Hayes's end. As soon as the blinking red light on the side of the glasses blackened he tore them off his face, then the headset.

"Well, not too bad for your first week in," Hayes said.

"How long's the whole thing?" Clint asked.

"Around three minutes."

He sat back in his seat, staring at nothing.

"Well, a step at a time, alright? You're doing fine," Hayes said. "Like all else, it's about exposure. Just, whatever you do, don't cut the medication. We have specialists to decide that for you." She returned everything to her briefcase. "Any questions?"

"No," Clint said.

"Alright, I'll be back next week."

Natasha accompanied Hayes to the door. As Hayes stepped into her car she waved Natasha in. "You and me, we're gonna talk."

"Talk what?"

Hayes gave a pointed look.

Natasha got into the seat next to her. The car smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, and It wasn't until they had driven out of the neighborhood that Hayes began to talk.

"Tell me about that night."

Natasha looked out at the houses whizzing by, grinding a fingernail on her seatbelt.

"Agent Romanoff."

"I don't think there's much I can say."

"Well, we might track what's going on inside him, but we don't have security cameras in the place."

"Oh, you don't?" Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"I need everything you can tell me, Agent."

The car was hot and stuffy. Natasha leaned forward and smashed her hand onto the AC button.

"He fought for the medication when I tried to give it to him."

"Did he say anything?"

"No."

Hayes nodded. "Well, in order to prevent more... scuffles in the future, I want you to have this." Eyes still on the street unrolling ahead, she fumbled for a small gray box under her seat and handed it to Natasha.

Natasha opened the box. Six metal syringes lined up like soldiers on a black foam pad, sturdier than the plastic ones Clint had.

"Extras. Hang on to them. I suggest you keep one or two on your body at all times," Hayes explained.

"I don't think this is necessary, Agent Hayes."

"Not my call, Romanoff." Hayes uncapped the water bottle in the cup holder with one hand and took a drink. "On a different note, Lin's really cold-shouldering the whole thing, isn't she?"

"Makes me wonder why she offered in the first place."

"Well, she wasn't always this way." Hayes replaced the bottle. "I visited her here a few months back and she's the same as she's always been. This time she didn't even bother to pop down for a hello. Don't know what happened."

_P.E.G.A.S.U.S,_ Natasha wanted to say. But she kept silent.

When Hayes drove her back Natasha entered quietly. Clint sat on the bed, his knees drawn close to his chest, looking out the window. She needed to get furniture. For the past week that bed had multitasked as chair and sofa and desk. The rickety table next to it was already crammed.

The noon sun flooding through the window glossed his face and arms white, picked out highlights from his black shirt. She didn't get a good look at his expression until she came close, and it didn't surprise her. His posture gave it away.

"We need a couch or something," she said.

"Bed's fine," Clint mumbled.

Natasha gathered the laptop and chargers buried in the blankets and piled them on top of the already-crammed table. The wood gave a low, grinding _creeeaak. _

"Bed's fine. Table's not fine." She felt around until she located a water bottle under the sheets and unearthed it, tossed it onto the floor. "Either we buy something to put stuff in or we gotta start throwing things out."

"I'm better than this."

"If it comes down to it there's always cardboard boxes, y'know?"

"I thought it'd be easier."

"I saw these basket things in that store by Fourth and Market a few days ago that—"

"Quit it, Natasha."

She let go of the crumpled shirt she was folding and scored her nails over her palm.

"I don't know how anything's gonna improve. I can't see it."

"Patience, Clint."

"I don't have it."

"Hey, hey." She scooted over to him, squinting as the sunlight hit her eyes. "We have two months, ok?"

"What if I get nowhere after two months? What then? They gonna keep us from ops forever?" Clint looked away. "They'll keep me, at least."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I can't do that to you."

"You're not doing anything to me. I'm not leaving you."

Natasha pulled him to her by the back of his neck and kissed him. Clint recoiled after the barest of seconds. The light moisture on her mouth felt cold as she took steady, controlled sips of air, and when it quickly evaporated she ran her tongue over her lip and bit down.

"That doesn't solve anything, Natasha." The look he gave her was a mix of disappointment and tenderness, alternating and fusing until she couldn't tell the difference between the two.

"I wasn't trying to."

She regretted the words as soon as she said them. The tightness in her neck felt like a rock had lodged in her throat. She couldn't swallow.

Clint's expression was neutral, but the smoulder behind his eyes strained to surface. "I wish you were."

* * *

Come Friday morning a racket hammered through the ceiling upstairs, waking Clint and catching Natasha's attention. A child's shrill, gurgling laughter clashed with the _thump thump _of what must be a bounced ball. A familiar voice boomed in the background, talking and laughing.

"...Kids?" Clint stretched and sighed.

After some time footsteps squeaked down the stairs. He shot up at the sound, Natasha following and while he made sure his shirt was presentable she finger-combed her hair and went to get the door. Alvaro's figure filled the door frame.

"Morning!"

"Hi," Natasha greeted.

A small head squeezed from behind him and peeked. Alvaro ruffled the head of blonde straight hair, having no correlation whatsoever to his own glossy black curls and darker skin. He moved to let her wriggle through. "That's my Juliet. She goes by Lettie."

Juliet, in a plain t-shirt and shorts, stood in the center of the room, looking around. How old was she, seven? Eight? The little girl tip-toed around, eyes scouring her surroundings.

Natasha stepped aside. As Alvaro entered the room he squinted at Clint. "Hey, you didn't say you live here!"

"You didn't ask." Clint looked just as surprised.

"You guys know each other?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah. He's the guy that helped me unload all our camping trip stuff from the bus last week. Oh—" Alvaro snapped his fingers and raised his eyes to the ceiling. "—we're about to go to the park. It's a bit early and all, but you guys wanna come with us?"

Clint looked at Natasha. She considered the option. This might mean she'd get to see him without the night lamps on. With him out of the house during most of the day hours she didn't get to see him much. She could just ask where he went, of course, but he wouldn't want her to, and leaving personal space for each other had become a new trend between them. She didn't want him asking anything about what she went through in the dark. It only felt appropriate that she should reciprocate the gesture in the light.

"Sure." She agreed.

Lin waited for them outside the house with sunglasses and a frown on her face. As everyone exited she began to walk uphill, arms crossed.

"Flo," Alvaro called. "You're driving."

"The park is three blocks away."

"No, we're going to the Excelsior one. Right, Lettie?"

"Mhmm."

"I'd have to give up parking, is all," Lin complained.

"If you'd fixed the big garage door like I told you then you won't be saying that."

Once in the car a battle of giggles and laughs ensued. In the back, Alvaro tickled and teased Juliet, and they threw each other from one side of the car to the other. Natasha could hear the _ziiiiiip _of their seatbelts being ripped and rewinded from her single-seat in front of Alvaro.

"You're thirty-six, not ten," Lin yelled.

After finding parking, Juliet scrambled out of her seat. stumbling over Natasha's legs on her way out. She sprinted as soon as her shoes touched the ground, dodging a woman with a baby stroller and running her hand along the mesh fence around the park.

"Juliet, slow down," Alvaro shouted.

She didn't reply and darted behind an entrance ahead.

"That's what you get for spoiling her," Lin said. "Her mother would have—"

"Can we please not talk about that?"

When they entered through the same entrance that Juliet did, they found her lurching back and forth on a swing, slowly gaining height and force with each push. Clint walked to the other swing and sat down.

When was the last time Natasha saw him like this? Feet lazily grazing the ground, arms curled around the suspending chains and face turned to the sky, hair picking up a slight breeze, he looked relaxed. She didn't get to see a lot of that look these days.

Natasha stood behind him and put her hands on his back. She pushed, but he had his feet cemented on the ground and wouldn't budge. "Get off, then." She laughed.

She edged onto the swing after him. The hot rubber seat seared the back of her thighs, but the chains were cold. Clint's hand barely skimmed her back before Alvaro, sitting at a nearby park bench, spoke up.

"Natalie? Can I ask you something?"

She twisted around. "Yeah?"

Alvaro beckoned with a hand, not saying a word.

Natasha pushed off the swing and stood in front of him. He patted the space on the bench next to him. When she sat down he opened his mouth, and it took a while for him to pronounce any words. "I—this is a weird thing to ask, but—um..."

"What is it?"

"Are you free on weekdays? I-I-I uh... Are you free?"

"What?"

"Are you free during the day? Because I want to ask if you'd like to—"

"Wait.**"**

**"**—volunteer at Juliet's summer school?"


	3. Chapter 3

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

**A/N: **Replying to the guest review here because I feel like this needs to be addressed: the confusion you might feel is intentional. As in I intend to leave some things in the air right now (character identities, full scope of the situation, etc.) But they will be clarified soon as I bring in a couple of character from the previous fic.**  
**

However if somethings feel more like a big gaping hole than mystery, do tell me! I've been with the ideas for this fic almost half a year so I might have just assumed and skimmed over some things.

* * *

**Previously:**

"Natalie? Can I ask you something?"

She twisted around. "Yeah?"

Alvaro beckoned with a hand, not saying a word.

Natasha pushed off the swing and stood in front of him. He patted the space on the bench next to him. When she sat down he opened his mouth, and it took a while for him to pronounce any words. "I—this is a weird thing to ask, but—um..."

"What is it?"

"Are you free on weekdays? I-I-I uh... Are you free?"

"What?"

"Are you free during the day? Because I want to ask if you'd like to—"

"Wait.**"**

**"**—volunteer at Juliet's summer school?"

* * *

Natasha blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm serious, Natalie, it'd be great if you can. I work a twenty-minute drive away from here. My boyfriend's at a touring art exhibition in Europe. Florence doesn't like kids—no, don't gimme that look, Flo—so I don't have a lot of options left."

"Alvaro, look—"

"Oh, no no no. You don't have to stay the entire four weeks. If you and your... boyfriend are leaving soon, that's ok. It's still better than nothing. Monday through Friday, nine to two-thirty."

"Alvaro, I don't understand why it's—"

"Please, it'd mean everything to me."

What kind of parent, guardian, or whoever Alvaro was to Juliet, would entrust the kid to a strange woman he had only met twice?

She asked him that question. He simply answered, "You're Flo's friend. That's what counts."

What could she do? Deny him? Not like she did have anything to do, other than wandering around the city and resisting the urge to find Clint. Maybe this favor for Alvaro could occupy her mind and dim the nightmares. Those haven't decreased in frequency nor intensity as time went by. The time it took to shake the images off her mind had drawn out, and a simple cup of cold water didn't work anymore.

Lin was looking at Natasha with a speck of interest.

Whatever. "I'll do it."

"Oh my god. Thank you so much."Alvaro pulled her in for a hug, which she uncomfortably reciprocated. "I'll give you the address and hours. There's not much to fill out, just talk to the program director next Monday and you're set. There's a lot of shops nearby if you're hungry. They have a Round Table a block away, and a few taquerias and a Chinese food place, and in the afternoons the ice-cream—"

"Ok, ok." Natasha held back a chuckle. "I get it. I'll figure it out." She got up, rubbing the indented lines—bright red, probably—that the wooden bench planks had imprinted on the back of her legs.

Around 10 a.m their little group dispersed, with Lin heading back to her house and Alvaro readying Juliet for her friends' elementary graduation.

"You guys want a drive back or do you have plans?" Lin asked, sounding like she hoped for the second answer.

"Plans," Natasha answered.

She grabbed Clint's hand and walked away in the direction of the metro station she had googled a few minutes ago.

They took the bus two blocks away. As the half-broken stop-announcer pounded on and off and the soda-splattered floorboards heaved at the turns and stops, Clint asked where they were going.

"That basket and storage place I told you about in downtown," Natasha said over the passengers' conversations. "I can't stand looking through the bed for a sock."

From the Forest Hill train station to Downtown wouldn't take long, and she would have done better to talk to him without being cooped up in a moving metal box, but once she saw the way Clint squeezed expertly and deftly through the crowd on the metro train, eyes glued ahead, neck stretching like a setter, an urge for answers overcame her trusting, ever-present rationality, and once he found them a leaning spot at the back of the train she turned to him, and her words spilled like the half-full coffee cup rolling under someone's seat.

"He only asked me for the volunteer thing. Not you."

Clint leaned against the door and pressed his forehead onto the glass window.

"Wouldn't suit me anyway. Want my bow and arrows." The screaming whir of the train stripped half his voice.

"You having fun out everyday, Clint?"

"That's what you're calling it? Fun?"

"What, like you said anything about it? I know I can just follow you out. But that's not the point. That's not what I want."

"Like I have a clue what you want."

"This isn't about me, Clint. This is you. This is—"

"You need a distraction in your life, too, Natasha. I'm glad you're doing the school thing."

"Distractions don't amount to anything."

His mouth snapped open, but he held back, swallowed.

The next station drew up. Castro. A few people squeezed past them to exit, and a couple with matching mohawks came in.

"Nat. Talk to me." The train started again and began to blur his voice. "You don't want my help, I get it; I know why. But that doesn't mean I stop worrying about you, ok? I'm not knocked out. Just tired. I hear you getting up at night."

"Then you should sleep, you'll help us both if you do. You need good things in your life, Clint, not worry."

"You're the good thing in my life, Natasha."

Her heart twisted, dragging and writhing under her skin like a dull knife, and she took shallow breaths and waited for the pain to pass. This couldn't be about her. She didn't intend on having him turn the subject on her. No matter how many loopholes her argument now presented she couldn't risk making this about her.

Three more stations passed. Church. Van Ness. Civic Center. The old lady next them had been eavesdropping ever since Church, and as more people squeezed onboard the number would only increase.

"What happens when your good thing and your worry are the same person?" Clint asked. "Do they cancel out? I get nothing?"

"Then I get nothing, too."

"We won't—this won't last with nothing."

"I don't want it to. I want to move forward."

"Yeah? Well you've got _nothing _to help you in that."

A seasoned manipulator with an Asgardian god in her résumé, and she couldn't forecast—not even dodge—the bullets he bounced back at her. How was he so exposed yet more armored than she? He faced her from inches away and she wanted to run. Break through the train window into the whizzing black void. But then light began to glow as they drew into Powell Station, and when Clint shuffled out with his hands in his pockets she followed, and they walked in a configuration of carefully gridded space management until the escalator rolled in.

After the roar of the train, the relative peace of the station felt empty, but this time she had no words to fill the silence with.

* * *

It turned out that the storage systems they bought—collapsible, stackable nylon and steel boxes—organized more than the materiality in their lives. The moment the clutter unclogged from their existing spaces and out of sight, something loosened the uneasy tightness between Natasha's shoulders, and she fell back-first onto the bed with a sigh—the bed without ominous electronics and gadgets lurking under the covers. That simple change was enough to momentarily cast the junk in her head aside.

The sheets felt cool against her legs and warm by her arms and head, where the sun shined. The low buzz of the microwave spun in the background, and a faint fragrance of maple syrup gradually intensified. When Clint walked in with two steaming bowls she groaned, but took one from him anyway. Her taste buds might have tired of maple-cinnamon oatmeal, but her stomach thought otherwise.

He ate at the table, she in bed. Natasha propped a pillow on the headboard and leaned her back on it, then stirred the oatmeal with a plastic spoon, distributing the extra milk he had poured on top—she liked it runny; it made for quicker eating and no stickiness.

"Apple?" Clint asked. He held said fruit in hand, slicing wedges from it with a knife and plopping it into his bowl.

"Yeah."

Natasha took a couple wedges from him and ate it off her hand. The peaceful, leisurely atmosphere they created was almost enough to fool her, and for a moment the complete immersion she tricked herself into felt too good. Too artificial.

Clint took the empty bowls to the sink in the garage. She got up, too, strolled around the soft, newly cleaned carpet on bare feet. When the sink faucet ceased she padded to him. Over time he had developed a preference for the smooth top of her shoulder, and brushed his lips over it before tugging the loose strap of her bra up from where it looped around her upper arm. The gesture alone cloaked her further into the fog of temporary peace.

How long could they keep this up?

Clint seemed to ignore everything other than the skin where her neck and shoulder connected; he needed the illusion more than her. The lemony scent of dish soap on his hands hovered by her nose when he outlined her lips with a finger.

"The little girl, I've an odd feeling about her," Natasha said.

"Mmm hmmm." He kissed up from her neck to her mouth, and she allowed him a few seconds while she tried to think of what to say.

"I'm gonna ask Lin about it later," she said. "She seems to know something."

"You do that..." He shut her up with another kiss.

"No, no. Stop. _Stop._ Where'd you meet Alvaro?"

"That school near the park this morning. Pretty sure it's the same one he's arranging for you." Clint looked mildly annoyed for the interruption.

"I've never seen a parent or guardian that protective. It's borderline obsessive."

"Lin mentioned the mother... And he looks nothing like the kid."

"Wow. What a great observation."

"You look into it if you want," he murmured, his hand sliding over her sides. "Missed this."

"Maybe hang around a bit longer then." She didn't know if she was heating up or if it was his palms pressing onto her body. "Don't leave so early in the morning."

"S' not the same, Nat. And it's not that I don't want to tell you where—"

"Then what?"

"You'll see."

* * *

Monday morning. 7 a.m, Clint was still asleep. The fog outside hung lower and thicker than usual, and she could barely see into the next block as she walked down the streets. When she got off the bus and walked up the hill to the school, the fog turned into a half mist, half drizzle that she felt damp and sticky on her arms.

Splintery, half-painted wood planks and rusted mesh fences walled the school grounds. Candy wrappers and drink bottles wedged between the feet up from the ground a messy, juvenile mural of flowers and leaves floated on a blue band of background, mingling with real vines and leaves.

Natasha creaked apart the heavy metal gate. Her boots crunched on sand and grit. A small, colorful playground took up the right corner of the campus, rounded in by a picket fence. Russet bricks stacked into the main building straight ahead, with closed-shutter windows gridding the walls and a wide staircase leading to the door.

She kicked a lonesome, half-deflated red ball out of the path and followed the signs to the office on the third and top floor. Her footsteps echoed off the stairs and walls. At the second door from the top of the stairs she entered. A cluttered office desk directly faced the door, three cushioned chairs set in front of it. Colorful, chaotic bulletin and white boards crowded the walls, studded with photographs and drawings.

A frizzy-haired woman in tie-dye and checkered jeans flitted behind a set of wooden cubbyholes. No other humans were in the room. A jingle emerged from the back of the room and neared, materializing into a small gray blob that bobbed towards Natasha and sniffed her legs.

"Jackson, where you goin'?" Frizzy Hair's voice was high and perky.

The gray dog paid no mind to her calling and continued sniffing Natasha. It had a red bandana with sewn-on small golden bells tied around its neck .

"Jacksoooooon?" Frizzy Hair turned around. "Oh!" Her mouth formed an "o" when she saw Natasha. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, hi. I came about the volunteering job for the summer program here. Are you the Director?"

Frizzy Hair scooped up the dog Jackson in one hand and shook Natasha's with her other. "Yup. Lizzy McClegan. Your name Jennifer?"

"Natalie."

"Oh, right. Sorry. You're the one Alvaro told me about. Hold on." She shook her mane of brown hair dramatically.

"Is there anything I need to sign or know about?" Natasha asked.

"I just need a signature." Lizzy bounced onto the swivel chair in front of the desk and messed around on the computer. "Since you're just volunteering, you'll kinda hang around the kids, help them if they need anything. You got experience?"

"I worked daycare for a couple of years, and taught the seventh grade."

"Cool, cool. What's your name again? Sorry."

"Natalie. Natalie Rushman."

"I'll try and remember." Lizzy got up, almost tripped over Jackson as she went to the printer at the back of the room. She pulled out a piece of paper and grabbed a pen on her way back.

"Sign that, you're good to go. Kids are coming in at nine, so if you're doing breakfast or anything, I'd suggest now."

Natasha headed out. There was a donut store a block down that she planned on going to. Before she made it down the stairs she looked back at Lizzy and the messed that surrounded her.

"You want me to take your dog for a walk?"Natasha offered.

"Oh, no, it's fine. I can't do that to you."

Natasha grabbed the dog leash hanging off the door knob, scooped up Jackson, and clipped the leash onto his collar. Lizzy gave a yelp of surprise, and Natasha didn't stay around to hear what apologies the flustered woman had lined up.

Jackson bounced down the stairs like a furry rubber ball, his little pink tongue bright and glistening, sticking out of his gray fur. The weather looked more promising when she re-emerged from the building. A few people were on the streets. A pair she knew sat inside the little donut shop, on the edge-table that faced the street outside.

"Hey," Natasha greeted.

"You're here." Alvaro smiled.

Juliet, in a pretty yellow dress, nibbled a sticky, sprinkles-coated donut beside him, and made kissing sounds at Jackson, who approached more for the food in her hand than her luring.

"Yeah, just dropped by for coffee," Natasha said.

"Coffee?" The woman behind the store counter heard and asked. "Small medium large?"

"The largest you have."

"Sit down, sit down." Alvaro gestured at Natasha. "You've seen the school?"

"Yeah, I just came back from it."

"He's a cairn terrier," Juliet said, trying to pet Jackson, who squirmed away from her to get at the donut.

"Is he, Lettie?" Alvaro said. "Eat your breakfast, it's almost time for school."

"They're hunting dogs from Europe."

"That's good. Drink your smoothie."

As it neared nine o'clock, they headed back to the school together, Juliet obediently staying by Alvaro's side, but she was taking every chance to get close to the dog. When Alvaro dropped her off she barely said her goodbyes.

"Don't run off campus, ok?"

"I won't."

"Natalie's gonna watch you."

Juliet shrugged, still trying to get at Jackson.

"Alright, Imma go now."

"Kay."

As soon as Alvaro left Juliet asked Natasha, "What's his name?"

"Jackson." Natasha picked up the furry, squirming dog for Juliet to pet.

"Is he your dog?"

"Nope."

"Then why does he let you pick him up?"

"Because I gave him donuts and you didn't."

Juliet giggled. Natasha set Jackson back to the ground he yearned for and pulled taut the leash when he tried to scamper off. Other families were coming in now, filing purposely into the building. Natasha took Juliet's hand in hers and followed the crowd.

Turned out they were using the second floor classrooms. The teachers were already there, and as soon as the parents left they rounded everyone to the cafeteria on the same floor to take roll.

One of the teachers, a Ms. Ross, whipped away at the attendance strip while Lizzy the Director tried her best to talk to the students. Jackson began whining when he saw her and tugged on the leash again.

"Juliet Jansson?" Ross called, then repeated herself twice.

Juliet snapped to attention. "Here."

After that everything was chaos. The whole program was basically daycare for elementary and middle-schoolers, a place for families to pen their kids. The wild roaming around the school was interrupted by occasional round-ups to run through a math worksheet or two.

Though the lure of the dog was gone now that Lizzy had retrieved Jackson back upstairs, Juliet stayed with Natasha, and even when she did leave her side she didn't talk much to the other kids and didn't look like she felt lonely. She looked indifferent.

"You don't like ball?" Natasha asked, nodding at the group of five throwing the deflated red ball she had kicked aside earlier.

"I do..." Juliet ground the grit underfoot with her shoes as they sat on a bench by the playground. "But I don't know the kids."

"I thought you went camping with them."

"Yeah, but they're not my classmates."

Natasha frowned. "Then why did you..."

Juliet shrugged.

"Are you from Manhattan, Juliet?"

She looked genuinely puzzled by that question. "No?"

Dead end. "Nevermind." Natasha smiled. "You wanna sneak out with me? We can get ice cream."

The rest of the day was uneventful, with Juliet purposely stalling in the streets and diving in every other shop—the dollar store, the Walgreens, the groceries and pass an auto parts place to as far as the Cable Car Burger place a wide five blocks away—until they rounded up a total of two hours rogueing the neighborhood and a frantic Lizzy scouring for them when they returned. By then the school day had ended. Juliet didn't look too sorry about that prospect, nor the chiding Alvaro imposed upon her after hearing about her "escape".

"Look, Natalie," he pulled Natasha aside to say. "It's cool that you wanna do this for her. I like that. But I really, really need her to stay on campus."

"I stayed with her the whole time," Natasha said. "And Lizzy's ok with it." That was a lie. "But I understand your concerns, so it won't happen again."

"Aw, it's ok. Don't worry about it, kay?" Alvaro smiled another one of his toothy smiles. "We're going now. You should too."

After all the families had UPSed their children home and the campus quieted, Natasha headed for the third floor to grab her bag from the office. Lizzy had relapsed into her morning frenzy, scolding Jackson for getting underfoot while she flew stacks of folders and binders around, cursing now that the kids had left.

"You need help?" Natasha asked.

"No, no, it's fine, Natasha—"

"Natalie."

"Yeah, Natalie. Sorry, so sorry. They had a fourth grader called Natasha that drove me in_sane_. And yes, I do need help, but I can't ask anymore from you."

Natasha picked up Jackson's leash from where it dragged behind him. "Then don't ask."

Lizzy stopped her craze, combed her thick curls behind her ears and smiled with mingling apology and relief. "You're great."

* * *

One of the perks of writing the city you're living in is, well, immersion. And a better sense of place. All places mentioned here are existing in case you wanna google around :)


	4. Chapter 4

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

* * *

Two days later, Night Thirteen into the nightmares. When she woke she reached behind, felt the sticky sweat on her back, and pushed back the sheets. A half-hearted scrubbing of the bathtub later she turned on the hot water and breathed the steam while it filled. It took half a bottle of body wash to get a measly layer of soap bubbles filming the water surface.

Draping her clothes over the sink, Natasha stepped into the tub and let the stinging water envelop her body. She had overfilled; would have to keep still to avoid spilling water onto the floor, and she was in no mood for clean-up.

The TV still hummed from upstairs. Lin was nocturnal. Not one night had passed when Natasha didn't wake to some sort of noise from the floor above. At first she was passive, but as the nights passed the racket Lin made began to warp into something companionable. Though Lin still ignored Natasha and Clint's presence 90% of the time, they'd began to scrape away at the concrete barrier she'd set up between them.

Natasha'd barely considered dozing off when the bathroom door opened.

Clint walked in, hesitated when he saw her, but stayed and closed the door behind him. He tried to hide his flickering gaze on her body beneath the rapidly-popping bubbles.

"I need to go..." He gestured at the toilet.

"Go." Natasha shrugged.

Clint shrugged back and did his business. After he finished and pulled his boxers up, he crouched down beside her with his elbows on the edge of the tub. If he's going to start asking the same questions again she'd splash soapy water on him.

"Is this working out? Baths at 2 a.m?" He swirled a finger in the water.

"Yeah, I'm ok. Go back to bed, Clint."

He looked at her for a while, then curled a strand of her stiff wet hair behind her ear and stood. "Well, g'night."

She couldn't feel more alone after he left. When the bath water cooled to a bare lukewarm Natasha got up, drained the tub and rinsed, dried off, and when she finished morning had begun to tinge the windows. Dawn already. She walked to the table and cleaned up the used syringe and other supplies Clint had left out. Her hand lingered on the steel box where his stash of medication was. The box was half empty. He'd go through his first month's supply soon.

Hayes (the psychiatrist) would return tomorrow; Wednesday had rolled around again. Natasha didn't know if she wanted to see Clint's progress on those projected numbers and graphs. But then she had her volunteer job to go to, right, and with Hayes' noon arrival she'd miss the check-in.

Now Natasha didn't know if she was disappointed or not.

While it felt like Clint's situation improved, the opposite occurred to her. What did she think, that a few annoying kids and a steady schedule would help? It sounded realistic, of course, but the images in her dreams had engraved so deep into her that they transcended realism. She had to get to the source of the problem. But that included Clint and she wasn't ready to go there. Physically it's been easy to grow close together after New York, but a stubborn, translucent net still separated them, and she had the feeling that whoever to first charge into it would get tangled in a bigger mess.

But it wouldn't hurt to stretch her neck and peek into the other side of that net, would it?

Natasha checked her phone's contacts list to make sure she had Hayes' number.

* * *

That afternoon, after the kids had gone home and Lizzy had bumbled through her usual chaotic rituals with Natasha's help, Natasha strolled aimlessly around the quiet, residential areas and called Hayes.

"Hello, Agent Ro—"

"Hey, are you still around the area?"

"Well, I'm across the Bay Bridge, but I'll swing around. Did you want to talk?"

"Yeah, I do. But don't bother turning back. We can talk like this."

"I think it's better we do this in person." Hayes' voice lowered. "Can you get to north of the city in a half-hour or so?"

Did something go wrong? Natasha agreed reluctantly. They met up at the borderline between Chinatown and North Beach, which swarmed with tourists and residents alike. Hayes had on another set of her designer work clothes: flowing black pants and white button-up shirt with a glaring red handbag under her arm. She waved daintily to Natasha, moving only her fingers.

"Have you eaten around here yet?" Hayes asked. "I don't want to discuss on an empty stomach."

"Nope." Though it wasn't hard to guess what options they had when they stood smack in the center of a street of Italian restaurants.

"Ok, good. I know _the _best linguini place."

After they had settled down at an outdoor bistro table, waiting for their order, Hayes began, "So, do you want to start first, or me?"

"How's Barton today? The stats?"

"Well, improvement is an over-exaggeration..."

"Can I see the numbers?"

Hayes shook her head. "Just take my word for it. We both know it's not just about lines and graphs on a screen. They leave out more cruciality than they gather." She stared off into space, scratching at the chipped red and black nail polish on her thumb.

"So you're saying there's virtually no progress."

"At his speed, yes. No progress. Unless you—"

"Look, Agent Hayes —"

"It's Annie. Call me Annie."

"—I won't do it."

Hayes frowned. "You haven't even heard what I have in mind yet."

"I already know. And I don't want to."

"That's not an adequate excu—"

"I'm not writing high school essays for you, _Annie. _Like you said it's not all lines and graphs. If you want an academic answer in paragraph form, I don't have it."

"You need to talk to him, _Natasha_. You two need to sit down, relax, and talk about how things are going. And that brings me to my next point: you're in no better a position than him."

"Hmm. Put me on medication." Natasha rolled her eyes.

"No, not that." Hayes flicked her wrists, making her rings twinkle in the sun. "Barton's pretending that he's ok. You're pretending about _everything._ Literally every word you say is a lie, Romanoff."

Her hands hidden under the table, Natasha tugged at the tracking bracelet cuffing her wrist. The damned thing. She remembered last week, when Hayes had asked her if Clint had said anything the night he relapsed. So that was a test on _her_; they'd known every line of dialogue between them all along.

All this made Natasha want to lie _more._

"I don't think this is the time for cut-open truths and whatnot, _Agent Hayes. _It never is and never will be."

" I understand that that's your MO, but you're not in ops right now. I'm not talking to Black Widow. I'm talking to Natasha Romanoff."

What did Hayes know? What right did she have to discuss identity when Natasha herself had no clue? Why would she tell _Hayes? _Natasha gulped down half of her ice water. "And how would you know you're talking to Natasha Romanoff?"

"I don't. You'll have to show me."

"Look, you're not here to fuss about me. This isn't about me."

"You're a unexpendable variable in this matter for Barton."

Of course. Natasha was caught in another web she couldn't get out of. The thought that she was tied to something, that her actions held responsibility for another person, settled like a dragging weight on her shoulders. She knew she should be truthful to Clint—honesty was crucial in their fragile, healing relationship—but how could she when he'd begun to believe better things? That with the new _"distractions" _in her life she'd scar over like she always did and everything would return to normal for her? If truthfulness meant admitting the degree of damage in her then forget it. They could get by the way one broken leg could still limp and drag along, but two crippled would doom them; leave them stagnant.

"Then I will do what's needed." Natasha got up, brushed over her clothes and stuck her fists in her jacket's pockets. "Thanks for nothing."

The next few days went by in a distracted blur with the same mental chant repeating like a commercial:she was doing good. She was doing good. She was doing good. She was doing good. Coffee fixes escalated to every four hours, but that didn't matter with her easy access to caffeine in the shops lining the edge of the Sunnyside neighborhood. Natasha had trained herself to rid the sudden transitions from nightmare to reality, and apart from a tight grind on her teeth she could remain motionless. Relaxed, even. It was harder to relax when Clint had his arm unconsciously nudging her side or making any other sort of contact with her, but she learned to live with it. She'd avoid looking at him when she woke because her eyes would play tricks and she'd see her face instead of his, the same way how in her dreams, his figure would morph into hers—Natalia's—amidst a backdrop of explosions and screams. Luckily the images would shake off by the time day broke, and she'd recover enough to give him a quick kiss before she rushed out for another day of crying children and panicking Lizzies.

That schedule had branded into her so thoroughly by now that she didn't expect the hard blow that Saturday night.

It was as if another dimension shoved into her conscience. In her dream flames stormed the Helicarrier, ringing and closing in on the **control panel **where Fury had stood a many times, toggling and commanding. Except he wasn't there now. Natasha never saw him there.

Clint stood in his place, his hair flickering red as fire. The bow in his hand swirled obsidian and ice, lava and hot, hot steel. Stoic agents stood by their computer monitors, staring at nothing.

None of this surprised her. Not even when Clint drew his arrows and shot the agents down, one by one, counter-clockwise, until they crumpled and folded into the flames. Hill. Sitwell. Old Lady Grace from the P.E.G.A.S.U.S office. All gone until Natasha remained in solitude.

She looked down. First difference: she, too, stood by a computer. Second difference: a gun rested by the keyboard. A tranquilizer gun. Not just any tranquilizer but the one Coulson had slipped to her along with her new uniform just before the attack began, the one that solidified their secret pact to keep Clint safe, though then there were no Clint but someone else infesting his body. The third difference was that apart from her head, she could not move.

Clint turned to her. His image began flashing and flickering, interchanging with Natalia's. An arrow pointed at Natasha.

The gun laid inched away and she couldn't grab it. Couldn't grab it as the bowstring snapped and the arrowhead flew for her, and just as it pierced her heart Natasha gasped awake, and shuddering, she whipped back the blankets and pushed off the bed, her staggers to the garage none of the conscious. Bile rose in her throat and an urge to throw up tumbled in her stomach. Her vision flashing red and black, she fumbled for the loose wood planks she'd jammed apart from the wall a week ago. Her fingers closed in on the metal box inside the wall and she pried the lid open, flicked one of the cold steel syringes out and into her pocket. Then she was on the streets, running, and though she hoped now that time had passed, the alarms in her mind and body would surrender, they didn't, and she must have ran a good few blocks because the noise level began to fluctuate as she neared the train station. Far enough. Natasha ducked behind a closed storefront, yanked her t-shirt sleeve up, flicked the cap off the syringe and when the needle slipped under her skin she held her breath and gritted her teeth at the ruthless pain. A searing heat crawled from her stiffened arm to her fingertips, climbed onto her shoulder and broiled across her back. She welcomed it; welcomed the liquid flames that washed away the black remains of the nightmare and left her red and raw to the bone, but fresh. Her mind cleared. As long as her mind cleared, the physical pain could come second.

A greasy man lumbered up to where she slumped against the shop's front door. "Watchu got ther'?" He pointed at the glimmering syringe in her hand. "Pretty young thing like you, didn't know you does co—"

"Stay away."

"I gotta gun with me, lady. Ever seen one of those? I ain't wanna mess around. Just hand me what you got an' we're good here."

Natasha kicked him hard in the crotch. He yelped and stumbled back. She grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked, kneed him again, and swiped the un-holstered, carelessly guarded gun from under his belt. With one hand she unloaded the gun, tossed it away, and finished off beating up her attempted-mugger. The man was whimpering by then, arms wrapped around his head as she stomped him into the crumbling, sticky pavement.

She let him escape prematurely; she wasn't thinking about him anymore, but to the emptied syringe rolling down the street.

There was a huge disadvantage to clear thinking.

She realized what she'd just done.

It was only a matter of time before consequences came chasing her with its bills, and Natasha had a lot of those going for her. The most immediate to surface was the intensified feeling to vomit, which she did, next to a clocked out parking meter yet another block down. Acid stung the roof of her mouth and the taste wouldn't subside no matter how hard she ran her tongue over the sourness. Fatigue came next, and she understood then how Clint could just... _drop_ after taking his doses every night. She could sleep a year on the pavement.

Next: the meds did their job, alright. Her body felt like a blowing plastic bag but her mind functioned like clockwork. Natasha went over her situation calmly as she bumped into a 24-hour grocery, wrenched an icy coca-cola from the refrigerators and paid with a few quarters that she fished out from her shorts (they were for the bus fares). Her tracking bracelet blinked at abnormal speeds, blue light shining on and off on her wrist. Who'd find her out first? Probably whoever's the first to lay eyes on the data the bracelet transcribed to. Next person they alert would be Fury. And Sheerin. God damn, it won't be pretty.

The soda ran down her throat with another kind of sting, and the sudden sweetness made her teeth feel squeaky and rubbery. Swinging her arm and shaking her drink into creamy froth, Natasha headed back in the vague direction of home, taking her time in case another side-effect of the meds decided to poke up. Regret? She didn't feel it. Guilt? None at all. She wasn't gallant in her methods and would never be.

Her phone read 2:59 a.m. When Natasha returned she stuck a piece of tape on the still-blinking light on her bracelet to dim it. Hopefully it'd turn off once it's morning.

She gently pulled the blankets pooling on the floor back over Clint, tucked him in, and, making the barest indents on the bed, she crawled back in next to him. Now she could sleep. Now she could finally sleep.

But then, right when she closed her eyes, an ugly, nauseating feeling began to chew at her, and all her drowsiness vaporized like they'd never been. When she looked at Clint, at that peaceful, oblivious, almost childish sleeping form, the pain she'd walked off came for its revenge, this time bursting deep in her chest, and she didn't try to suppress it. Fury and Sheerin and Hayes she could deal with. If Clint woke this moment she didn't know what she'd do.

Natasha ended up filling the bathtub for the night again.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

**A/N: **Hey! Longer chap for longer update time (please take the bait haha). I'll be directly referencing events/characters from the fic before this, so for those of you who have read that, if you want a refresh, that'd be chapter 15 in AOHQ.

Also! This is more of a personal issue I can't shake off rather than something that affects you guys a whole lot, but since it's writing related I'm gonna put it here. I love more prose that's freer than what I've been writing. Love love love it. Before actually writing & editing this I'd planned on doing the _entire_ fic in that style (similar to the oneshot I did) but that just doesn't work out in the long run. 1. It's fun but exhausting to write that way and 2. It's difficult to read sometimes and I know that a lot of readers read faster than teachers mass-grading tests. I'll save the nice sentences for shorter stories. If anyone's interested in some new things I've been trying out in the past month, I did up a comfortably short 600 words flash fiction that I have linked on my profile page. (Based off of Clintasha I guess, so there might be OOC) Mingling the boundaries between words and feelings is definitely something I'd like to practice more in the future!

Sorry about long A/N. Not gonna happen often.

* * *

The next morning she spent alone at her favorite bakery, nursing a naggy headache. She had stayed and flipped through the same newspaper long enough for the shop owner to glance at her every now and then.

Natasha straightened the newspaper and tossed it back on the rack next to the table. The coffee lady took the cue and made Natasha her exit cup. It had become an unspoken routine between them—she'd come in, drink her fill, and when she left she'd get another cup to go.

She placed her money on the cash counter and took her drink. As soon as she walked out into the streets her phone buzzed. Perfect timing. Natasha sighed softly and answered.

"All that caffeine might just do you more bad than good," Fury said.

"Doesn't matter either way." She took a sip of her coffee.

"That's your new motto, huh? 'Doesn't matter either way'?"

"It's an unrestraining way to live."

"Romanoff, I'm not going to flay you over the phone. You and I gonna talk in person."

Fury hung up.

Natasha took an extra big swig of her coffee.

When she returned home Clint was outside, leaning against their door. He perked up and walked to her. "C'mon, we're going somewhere."

"Are we?" She eyed him carefully.

Nothing cleared up when twenty minutes later, they arrived at the doors of the San Francisco Department of Animal Care and Control. Clint greeted the man at the front desk breezily and, before long, Natasha found herself among a room covered in rows of stacked, spacious cages. The barking and yapping echoed off the walls, and the smell of dog food saturated every inch of air.

Clint reached into every other cage and ruffled a brown head or black, long fur or short, murmuring hellos and praises. Still he offered no explanations, but Natasha needed none, anyway.

So that's where he went every day.

She reached out and petted a silver Yorkie.

Clint looked at her, his eyes twinkling. After a while a young Indian woman entered the long room. "Is that you, Clint?"

He waved to her. "Just checking on everyone."

"Sure you are." The woman shook Natasha's hand. "I'm Mandy."

"Natalie."

"Cool. Well, no hurry. Lucky is in the play pen." Mandy smiled and left.

A few more minutes later they left the caged dogs and into the next room, where a low, white metal gate divided the room in two, with four or five puppies tumbling around on the padded side strewn with toys. Clint straddled the fence and scooped up a golden retriever pup.

"You were trying to hide this adorable thing from me?" Natasha teased, and took the warm bundle from him.

"I was planning on fostering him for a month or so until he gets his second set of shots. They say it's better to keep young animals in homes rather than this environment. Less chance of contracting diseases."

"Did you notify Lin?" Lucky licked her hand, and Natasha dabbed her finger on his wet nose.

"I checked the paperwork PDFs. Didn't say 'no pets' anywhere on the documents."

The earnest look he had on injected a surge of bittersweetness through her. Puppies. _Puppies. _She thought of the meds she took last night and at the comparison.

An employee came and helped them put Lucky into a crate, then presented them with a cardboard box full of dog food, bedding, toys, a manual, and other supplies. A scribbled signature on the dotted line on some papers, and they could go.

Just when Natasha was about to ask how they'd carry everything home, she spotted Lin's car parked outside the building. Silver flashed in, then out of Clint's pocket. He jingled the key fob in her face and unlocked the car dramatically.

"Lin might not like us," he said, smiling. "But apparently she's a huge dog person."

"Maybe the dog will grant us second-floor access." Lin had never once invited them to her floor of the house.

"We'll see." Clint looked back at Lucky, who was n the crate that he had secured to the seats with the seatbelt, pawing at the crate's door. "Let him out, will you?" he asked Natasha.

She flicked the lock open. Lucky hopped onto the floorboard and wobbled toward her, and she picked him up and settled him in her lap. He wouldn't sit still, his paws kneading her thighs as he turned around and around to survey his environment and look out all the speeding landscape outside the window.

"How'd you come across the Animal Control?" Natasha asked.

"Alvaro."

"Oh." She poked her nose into Lucky's fur. He smelled like dog food and cotton blankets.

They drove a few blocks in silence before she spoke again.

"You could've told me this. It wouldn't have mattered."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know."

He wouldn't tell her, but she knew. They both had severe privacy issues. Alone-time issues.

For all their jesting, wishful thinking on V.I.P membership to the second floor, that didn't happen. When they made it through the door to the basement Lin was already there, her arms in their usual crossed position over her chest.

"That's him?" She knelt by Lucky's crate on the floor. "Lucky, hmm. How old?"

"Two months and eleven days," Clint answered, unpacking the supplies they brought back. He paused to unlock the crate. Lucky sniffed his way out, his big floppy ears almost touching the ground.

Lin stroked his back for a while, then rose and hung her car keys on a nail hammered by the stairs to her floor. "I'll leave this here when I'm home." Her voice came out almost in a whisper. "Dog might need vet visits."

Lucky was affecting everyone in his range for the better. Yet that night Natasha still sneaked out to the garage for one of the emergency shots Hayes gave her that were definitely not _for _her. This time the pain subsided in intensity but the benefits hadn't lessened. She sat on the cold concrete floor, staring at the dim outline of a cable cord hanging off the ceiling, and waited for her vision to stop flashing before she returned to bed.

The sound of tiny claws clicking neared. Lucky stood at the threshold connecting basement to garage, his eyes a glowing haze. The pale tuff of his tail wagged.

Natasha brushed the sharps and containers behind her back before she let him waddle closer. Lucky sniffed around her legs, and his fur tickled her skin when he nudged his nose into the underside of her knee.

She lifted him onto her lap and pushed his muzzle away when he tried to lick the still-prominent needle hole on her arm. "Quit it," she whispered. When he wouldn't stop she plopped him back into the basement, shut the door, and stuffed all her guilty evidence back behind the loose plank on the wall. She opened the door again and Lucky was still there, tail still wagging.

Natasha returned him to the crate that Clint had set up at a corner of the bedroom and went back to bed. She began to hear soft whines from the puppy, but she simply couldn't stay awake any longer.

* * *

High-pitched yapping broke her sleep before her normal waking hour. Unable to jump, Lucky circled the bed frantically, padding at the hanging sheets with his front paws. Clint groaned beside her and sat up in one abrupt motion, making the mattress rock.

"Have you been loud all night?" He bent and picked up the puppy. "Lin's gonna kill us."

"She'll kill us, not the dog."

After breakfast, Natasha went off to Juliet's school. Natasha was early, intentionally so like every other morning so she could help Lizzy out. A faint trickle of familiar laughter seeped through the school's fence before she even went on campus.

A man sat on the bench outside the playground, talking to Juliet. A blond man wearing sunglasses, tight black jeans and a flannel shirt rolled neatly up to his elbows. He sat next to Juliet the same easy way Natasha did, and the sight made her walk a little faster, look a little closer.

"Lettie?" She stood before them both, addressing one and training her eyes on the other.

"Hi Na'lie." Juliet swung her legs harder and kicked up a cloud of sand and dust.

The man paid no mind to Natasha.

"Lettie, look." Natasha pulled out her phone and tapped the photos icon. "I got a dog yesterday."

With a squeal Juliet shot from the bench and latched onto the phone, cooing when she saw the pictures, asking left and right about Lucky and exploiting Natasha's one-day knowledge to the limits. Natasha gave choppy answers and ushered Juliet elsewhere.

Once she and the man were alone Natasha took a step closer. Still he didn't get up from his bench.

"Volunteer?" she asked.

"Yeah." He finally extended his hand. "Brooklyn James."

"Natalie Rushman. I didn't know they let new people in halfway through the program."

"Oh, I signed up a few months back. Ran a bit... late on schedule."

"Overseas?"

"Yeah."

The sideways looks he kept leaking told Natasha that this man did not lie often.

School started. Lizzy emerged from her office and gave an official welcome for James in the classrooms. She had her wild curls in a ponytail today, with a dozen bobby pins acting as reinforcements. She sounded calm. Jackson must be sleeping.

Two hours later Juliet fell off the wheelchair ramp's railing by the main doors.

Natasha broke into a trot when she came back from her coffee fix and saw Juliet on the dirt, her legs stretched out like little limp sticks, like a gunned fawn trying to get up. James crouched next to her. Then he pulled her up by her armpits, draped her over his shoulder and by then Natasha was up in his face. "Lettie, are you ok?"

Juliet gave a gurgled acknowledgement from her upside-down position.

"Nothing serious?" Natasha resorted to asking James.

"Sprained ankle. No big deal." James' voice was all rumbles and corners. "I'll just have her sit down for the rest of the day."

Alvaro's reaction was ten times as explosive before he even learned about the injury. Just the sight of the white dust streaking Juliet's black pants had him running to her. "What did you _do?_"

"I fell down, Al." Juliet called him Al like she was speaking to someone her age. Sometimes Natasha couldn't figure out if Juliet was mature or Alvaro was childish, but right now Alvaro looked a cross between a stressed mom and a military officer.

"Do you have a band-aid under?" he asked.

"Nope."

"You didn't go to the director?"

"No, Brooklyn said it's alright."

"Who's Brooklyn?"

Juliet pointed to James, who was outside the school, getting into his white van. Alvaro stretched his neck that way until the vehicle rounded the block.

"Who's that?" Alvaro asked.

"Just a volunteer," Natasha answered.

At 3 p.m she left campus, too, and something felt out of place as she descended the hill to the bus stop. Then she saw it—across the street, leaning against the display window of the dollar store: a man cocooned in a heavy trenchcoat, the coat zipper pulled so high it covered his chin. A pair of sunglasses veiled half his face and a beanie topped everything off. His posture angled away from Natasha, but she could bet everything that his eye looked her way beneath those glasses.

Natasha entered the donut shop behind her and bought a chocolate milkshake.

She sat by a table stationed to look out into the streets, so that while she stirred her drink around with her straw she could stare back at the man.

When she finished half of the milkshake the man finally gave in and crossed the street. He entered the donut shop. "Large coffee," he grunted. "Donut with the rainbow stuff."

The coffee dispenser buzzed. The Vietnamnese cashier uttered a accented "enjoy".

The man sank down next to her with a grunt. The smell of his coffee teased her, and she took a slurping sip of her milkshake to compensate.

"You are so screwed when Barton finds out," Fury said, like he'd been chatting to her the whole time. He took a bite of his donut.

"I got past _you,_" Natasha said.

"No you didn't. You gotta deal with Sheerin, too."

She rolled her eyes. _Sheerin. _Of course, the ringmaster behind Clint's medication would be in a frenzy by now.

"You understand that what you did—and continue to do—is highly dangerous, prohibited, and most of all _disappointing?_" Fury began jabbing a finger in the air. A green candy sprinkle stuck to his nail and Natasha couldn't take her eyes off of it.

"Of course," she murmured around the straw in her mouth.

"This is not affecting you alone. You're endangering—"

"I know that!"

"You know that? You knew that when you put that needle in your arm? You did? You need to give me and Sheerin a full debrief on your situation. _Right now,_" Fury ordered.

His car was parked a good ten blocks away. fifteen minutes later he drove her into the Mission, a busting neighborhood filled with mural-like graffiti and uncountable numbers of Mexican food shops. At the edge of Dolores Park—a spacious, sloped grassland that held less populants now than it did on the weekends, Fury killed the engine and stepped out.

A few highschoolers tossed a frisbee on the grass, and on a green park bench, a woman jabbered on her phone while pushing a baby stroller back and forth with a foot. That and two picnickers, a few hippies hanging around the tennis courts, and the park was practically empty.

Fury walked towards a black, square blanket spread out under a looming tree. Natasha didn't need to get close to know who the broad figure sitting on the blanket was.

Sheerin had on an orange and black Giants shirt and a "SF" baseball cap in the same color scheme, the kind of outfit that every fan of the local baseball team—meaning every resident in the city—owned. His potbelly had shrunken since the last time she saw him; S.H.I.E.L.D must've worked him hard. A ziplock bag of oreos laid next to him, along with a laptop that showed off the dust on its screen as sunlight shone on it.

"Ms. Romanoff." Sheerin held out a cookie-crumbed hand.

Natasha gave it a limp shake and, very obviously, in slow-motion, she wiped her hand on the grass as she sat down on the blanket. It was a S.H.I.E.L.D blanket, with the logo embroidered in gray covering the entirety of the black cloth. She'd have complemented her hand-wiping with her sneakers marking prints on that blanket, but there wasn't room to do so when Fury sat down next to her, so that they fenced her in on both sides. How fun.

"Last intake of 02X3H?" Sheerin asked, pulling the dusty laptop onto his lap.

"Last night. June 8th, 12:15 a.m."

"That's technically June 9th, then." Sheerin nodded but didn't type anything in. "Number of doses applied total?"

"Two."

"Noticeable side effects?"

Natasha hesitated out of instinct. She had no reason to lie, these were just preliminary questions that Sheerin and Fury expected her to answer truthfully, like a pharmacist asking for your name and birthday while they held your ID in hand. So she spilled it. A funny combination of feelings churned inside her.

"The pain's probably not supposed to be there; very concentrated along the spinal cord. Compromised vision for the first few minutes. Tingling on extremities. Nausea. Impulsive behavior and muscle spasms likely."

"Ok. Stage one: cleared." Sheerin made a _psheeeeuuww _sound and fluttered his fingers in front of the screen, then dramatically punched a key on the keyboard.

"Oh, get on with it." Fury groaned.

Sheerin took an oreo, and offered Natasha some from his ziplock bag. She took one. They were frauds; ones that cost at least a dollar less in stores. She passed the bag to Fury, who looked horrified even with his sunglasses on, and she derived that he's had a bad history with those cookies.

"Ok, carrying on..." Sheerin said around a mouth of crumbs. "Reasons for your unauthorized usage of the 02X3H?"

This one, she didn't answer.

"Destructive thoughts or actions? Anything?" Sheerin raised an eyebrow.

Natasha looked to Fury. He'd taken his sunglasses off, and he stared at her with both blind and working eye. Fury knew about her dreams to the farthest extent, and she wouldn't be willing to give out anything more. The parts she'd omitted to him were the parts that started this mess, that brought her on this half-assed, picnic-questioning at the edge of Dolores Park, and no way she'd tell Sheerin about it.

Sheerin took the hint and skipped the question. "On a scale of one to ten, what is your personal, estimated dependence level on 02X3H?"

"Ten."

"Reason being?" His expectant look dropped after a moment. "Oh, right." He frowned. "Look, Romanoff. I know we're going into sensitive material, but if I don't get enough out of you I can't prescribe anyth—"

"_Prescribe?_"

"Yeah. We're gonna give you your own prescription."

Prescription? She remembered the tests they ran Clint through for this same purpose with haunting vividity. Scan after scan, tubes of blood for testing, peeing in cups, saliva swabs. Fury had given her a brief on the process because Clint didn't want to talk about it. There'd been a procedure that involved direct thought intrusion, where with a few taped cords on your scalp they could basically decipher everything going on in your mind, including not only what you're thinking about but what you're suppressing, the things you're trying to stuff into corners and under covers. That's how they'd concocted the list of visual and auditory triggers for Clint.

Natasha would never succumb to that.

Sheerin took a slow nibble of his fake oreo. She never imagined Fury's milky blind eye to hold so much intensity.

"Barton's medication is not an option," Fury said. "That exposes you to an unpredictable amount of risks. Either you let Dr. Sheerin run you through the tests, or it's nothing."

"What risk? The side effects are fading already. And if Project Recovery was supposed to do anything it's to help regulate sudden changes and boost overall performance. That means we shouldn't have a problem interchanging. Minor unaccounted-for effects are imminent._" _Fury had half-nudged them into Project Recovery a week prior to the start of the alien invasion, around the time they'd unfroze Rogers. Natasha and Clint had, still clueless at the time, brought Sheerin in from Oakland to study Rogers' cell samples as the central operation of Project Recovery: an attempt at not replicating the Super Soldier Serum, but achieving a lesser, though similar effect by extracting segments of Rogers' DNA and introducing those into new host cells in another body. Though Fury had said that participation in the project was voluntary, he'd made his other options so bleak, made his silent pressure so obvious, that when he'd reached the point luring Clint to try out the serum, Natasha volunteered instead. Except after the Manhattan battle she'd found out that he had doubled back to take the damned serum himself.

Sheerin looked guiltily into his laptop. "You can't interchange. The serums you and Barton took for Project Recovery were different."

What? She stared at Sheerin, then Fury, then back to Sheerin again.

"Oh, tell her," Fury muttered. "Doesn't matter anymore."

Sheerin shuffled around, looking like he wanted to run. "A few hours after you went to the quarantines, Barton came back and asked for the serum," he said slowly. "I said ok, why not? But first I went and checked on the stats the systems were picking up on you. Immunity-wise, you were doing great. Heart functions peaked, lung capacity increased. Everything looked great except you had zero muscle and bone growth.

"So I thought, what the hell? What the hell is this? When you think of Captain America don't you think hunky and tall? The data didn't show any of that. I got mad worried then. I thought crap, her cells aren't localizing that entire segment of DNA. So I took a sample of your serum and picked through it. Turned out it wasn't your problem; I'd left those tubes of DNA in the freezer the whole time. So I quickly mixed it in with the existing serum and gave Barton that.

"Which means, you can't use the same medication as him now, since I built them around _his _conditions. It would've been frowned upon to share meds without Project Recovery in the way, but now it's just... unacceptable. The 02X3H is too strong for you. It _will _do damage. Maybe not now, but consider the long run."

"I'm not considering this as a long term solution," Natasha blurted.

"Doesn't matter. It still has an addictive edge to it."

She couldn't pinpoint why she still wanted it. This was her chance to gloss over the guilt without Clint ever knowing, her chance at something suited for herself, something she wouldn't have to hide. Yet she insisted on the opposite.

"My answer is still 'no,' Romanoff." Sheerin shook his head. "I won't do this for you."

"He's right." Fury cut in before she could protest. Immediately, though, he switched the topic. "Something else I wanted to talk about. Dr. Sheerin, get in my car. Out of here."

Grumpy, Sheerin pushed his hefty weight up, hobbled to the car, and rattled the door handle with a yell when it wouldn't open. Fury took out his key fob. In went Sheerin, and Fury turned back to Natasha.

"Sheerin not trustworthy enough?" Natasha asked.

"Hell no. If he can let an entire tube of DNA solution slip out his mind then it's not hard to imagine what would slip out his mouth."

"Yet you recruited him for Project Recovery."

"He's good. If there's one thing he's loyal to, it's his work. Right now he's working under S.H.I.E.L.D, so don't worry about him selling boosters to external sources." Fury glanced at her tracking bracelet. "Aw, that's no good. Let me just—" He picked out a little hinged box from his trench coat, opened it, pressed something, and her bracelet buzzed, blinked once. "—there."

She raised an eyebrow at him, though she understood the motive behind that action. Any information from that bracelet didn't pass directly to Fury but to the lead researchers paid specifically to nose in her life. When that nosing-in involved Fury and his personal conversations, he appreciated it even less than she did. Whatever he had to say, he didn't want the researchers and technicians on the other end to hear.

"I'm not asking much. I just need you to keep an eye on someone for me," Fury said. "Technically you're off duty, but you're flex, hmm?"

"I could use some excitement, yeah," she said, deadpan.

"Thought so. I meant to send you the details over, but since I'm here, why not just say it."

"Is the person in this area?"

"Yes, so no need unraveling your current schedule."

"Ok."

"Juliet Minerva Jansson. I believe you're acquainted already."


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

* * *

**Previously:**

"I'm not asking much. I just need you to keep an eye on someone for me," Fury said. "Technically you're off duty, but you're flex, hmm?"

"I could use some excitement, yeah," she said, deadpan.

"Thought so. I meant to send you the details over, but since I'm here, why not just say it."

"Is the person in this area?"

"Yes, so no need unraveling your current schedule."

"Ok."

"Juliet Minerva Jansson. I believe you're acquainted already."

* * *

Learning what she did from Fury changed everything. Natasha began looking out for Juliet with greater vigilance than she did before, doing it in a less obvious way than Alvaro, but nonetheless tracking Juliet's whereabouts and taking note of any abnormalities, which was to say, plenty.

Often she found James and Juliet talking together in low voices at the top benches of the gym or at the corner table in the classrooms. Sometimes Juliet giggled during her chats with him. Mostly they had on an attempted neutrality that James had no experience and Juliet hadn't enough years to learn how to mask. It was like they balanced invisible glasses of boiling water on their heads, the way they held so rigid, their jaw muscles barely moving when they talked as if to mask the very sign of conversation.

Two days after her meeting with Fury and Sheerin, Wednesday. At lunch break, as Natasha walked out from the donut place with her coffee, James passed by, didn't notice her, and continued his way down the street. Natasha checked the time. They had thirty minutes before break ended.

She caught up with him. "Hey." He was a head taller than her and his chin dipped to look at her.

"Natalie." He wanted to get rid of her already.

"You getting lunch?"

"Yeah. I—" James pointed messily at a Mexican store a few paces ahead and began swerving towards it, walking right into Natasha's path. "Here."

She followed him in and sat on one of the sticky, cushion-backed red chairs at a table while he ordered at the counter. A few other people were situated in the small, dimly lit restaurant. An open kitchen stretched across the far wall behind the counter, and the hiss and sizzle of oil splattered like a soundtrack on repeat, reminding her of the shawarma place in New York.

James came back with a paper take-out box of nachos and a burrito in hand, a brown paper bag swinging between his teeth. He unwrapped the foil on the burrito and pushed the nachos at Natasha, so she wriggled a triangle of tortilla chip from under the mountain of cheese and ground meat.

"So, James. How do you like the city?" she asked.

His eyes flicked up from the burrito. "How did you know..."

"Let's call it instinct." She smirked.

He regarded her carefully and crunched a tortilla chip. "You're born here?"

"Yeah."

"Fine." James leaned back on his squeaky chair. "I'm from the East Coast."

"Makes sense."

"Does it?"

"What'd you do back home?" Natasha tilted her head so that her hair bounced a little and grazed her cheek. He stared, like she intended him to.

James took a second too long to answer. "Eh, just office work."

"Working with kids must be a nice change."

"It is."

"Are you settling down here?" Natasha asked. "Tough place to live."

"No, no. Just..." His eyes wandered. "...visiting friends and staying for the summer."

"You friends aren't very good hosts, then." She went along with it.

"Why?"

"Who goes on vacation to San Francisco and volunteers at a summer school?" She increased the innocence in her expression to tone down his alarm.

"I can't say that the Golden Gate Bridge is worth a visit." James smiled and tried to loosen up.

"Oh, I know _that_." Natasha returned with a bigger smile. "You need a local guide for the hidden gems."

"You're suggesting...?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not suggesting anything."

James frowned and swirled a tortilla in cheese sauce. "I don't know..."

She didn't push further. It was time to go, anyway. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Natasha excused herself and went outside to answer.

"H'lo."

"Romanoff? I'm picking you up," Hayes said.

"What for?" Was she going to go for a drive with Natasha every week?

"Get off of Mission Street and walk up Avalon until you hit McLaren Park."

Natasha took her time on the road. Past encounters with Hayes hadn't been fun, and she didn't count on this time being any different. What would Hayes criticize this time? The puppy? Or more useless suggestions for Natasha?

McLaren park wasn't far, but within a few blocks the weather already changed its personality. The part of the park she arrived at didn't look anything more than a thrown-together teepee of scrawny branches and half-dead grass. Hayes waited by the edge of the sidewalk. Her hair had changed from ironed curls to a big, natural afro. A light, slick briefcase sat next to her on the dirt ground. She reached her hand into her pocket for something, and Natasha's tracking bracelet buzzed against her skin the way it did before her private talk with Fury.

Expressionless, wordless, Hayes picked up the briefcase and handed it to Natasha, then stepped back and picked at her fingernails, feigning disinterest.

Natasha unlocked the case, glimpsed inside, and snapped it close fast enough to trap a ghost.

"If you don't need them, I'd gladly take them back," Hayes said.

"Fury approved?"

"Yes."

"What about Sheerin?"

"He doesn't know."

Natasha opened the briefcase again. The dozens of syringes strapped to its interior glowered like a predator's eyes in the dark, daring her to reach her hand in, which she did, and the coldness of steel bit into her fingers.

"Sheerin will still find out," she said. "Unless Fury tweaks with the data on my bracelet, Sheerin'll know."

"That's what the Director is doing. He's going to intercept and divert what's transmitting from your tracker to him and switch in a substitute string of data in place that resembles your normal stats."

"How many people know about this?"

"Just us three."

Natasha bit her lip and looked away. "I owe you."

"Not yet. If this disintegrates my career at any point, you're gonna have a hell lot more to owe."

Helpless on what else to say or do, Natasha held out her hand. Hayes gave it a quick brush and turned on her heels to leave, her figure seeming to quiver like a projection.

Natasha closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

It was all her fault. _Again. _Hayes didn't have to get churned into this silent hurricane of conflict. Sheerin—no matter Natasha's personal view of him—didn't deserve having his work used this way, clearly against his will. This didn't even need to involve sentimentality to be ruled as _wrong. _But Fury oversaw these things. He did what he wanted and thought was best for the situation. But was this really the best decision?

Then again, what right did she have to criticize him when she had behaved with this exact mindset? How could she criticize him when he was but a mere reactor to the problem _she'd _created?

Half reluctant, her hand trailed to the phone in her pocket. She could call Hayes. She could call Hayes back and return the briefcase, before the symptoms to this new branch of dilemma began rearing their ugly signs. Maybe if she shouted, Hayes could still hear her and turn back, running, give Natasha a barely held back, relieved smile and take the case from her. Maybe this could be it. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Her throat felt tight. She couldn't _whisper _if she tried. A magnetic repulsion manifested between her hand and her phone.

Too late now. She'd have to follow through.

The slim briefcase weighed a dead ton that numbed her fingers and her better judgement as she picked it up.

* * *

She couldn't go home with this recent event burdening her thoughts like a thick fur coat that reeked of death and criminality ,especially not with the briefcase, so she broke into the school's tomb of a basement and unearthed a dusty, untouched cabinet to dump the case in. The air there smelled of old textbooks and rotting wood and wet earth. Natasha slipped into the elevator like a rat when she finished surveying the area and groomed the dust off her coat.

Work ended two hours later, and she still had enough intent to go home as she did to jump into a fire pit, so she stayed behind with Lizzy, who having just finished an essay-length e-mail, slumped back on her office chair and propped her hand-painted canvas shoes on the desk, smudging a shoe print on the first sheet of a stack of flyers. The flyers had just came out of the printer; invitations to the students' families for the end-of-program celebration that Lizzy wanted to throw next Friday.

"Imma be unemployed soon." Lizzy stared up at the ceiling with her hands folded over her stomach.

"What?" Natasha looked up from the attendance strips she was ticking off.

"One more week of pay for this job, and that's it."

Natasha stopped organizing the binder in her lap. "What happened to your other full-time job?" Lizzy worked as a cashier at a boutique in the Haight-Ashbury, a chunk in the heart of San Francisco by the Golden Gate Park that pranced peacock-colored Victorian houses and peacock-haired hippies, and boasted the funkiest, most eccentric trinket stores in the city; the kind of place where Lizzy blended in seamlessly.

"A chain store ran us out of business. It's been three days," Lizzy rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm.

"Can you still afford rent?"

"Yeah, for another month."

"Have you been job-hunting yet?"

"No... not yet." Lizzy sighed.

"Liz, be careful."

"I know, I know. I'm not picky with jobs. Waitress, dishwasher, burger-flipping at McDonald's, I've done it all. It's ok."

Natasha stayed as late as she could in the office, partly to keep Lizzy company, and partly to put off going home. It didn't matter that all they did was take turns throwing a ball for Jackson to fetch and playing an incomplete set of cards, ordering pizza around six in the evening because if Natasha didn't, Lizzy would go home for dinner, which wasn't cheap from observing the packages she tossed into the trash can: fancy organic foods that would drain her stagnant budget in no time.

"The homeless here have it pretty good," Lizzy said as she peeled off a piece of pepperoni to feed Jackson. "And a lot of them are decent people. Just trippin' on the money issue."

"You're not there yet," Natasha said steadily.

"I know, I know. I was just thinking." Lizzy sighed and licked grease off her fingers, staring out the wall-sized windows that overlooked the school campus. "I saw one of my high school friends sitting outside Civic Center last week with a shopping cart. I wasn't even sure if it was him until he called me out." She took a swig of orange soda. "God, he looked a mess. But he was smiling and that's what got me. I asked him 'did your parents kick you out?' he said 'nah, I just can't handle a house,' and it's weird because he lived in those really nice apartments on Nob Hill with the killer views. He said he couldn't stand the responsibility of a solid house. All he does now is look around restaurant dumpsters and do odd little jobs like car-washing for his pot money. He smokes a _lot _of pot. Like if he saved up his money he'd have twice what I have in my bank account."

"You're not him, Liz."

"It's an option."

"Hey, hey. You're taking this way too negatively."

"Rent's been rising crazy expensive, haven't you noticed? The rates from last year compared to now for half the neighborhoods have _doubled._"

Natasha took a bite of her pizza and chewed. "You can get lucky."

"You're just saying that for the sake of saying something."

"It's better than saying nothing."

"No, it's not." Lizzy tossed her crust onto the pizza box lid and took fresh piece. "I don't like false comfort."

"It gets you by, though," Natasha said softly.

"You just talkin' again."

"I'm not."

Lizzy took her feet off the window sill and the front legs of her chair thudded back onto the floor. She tucked a lock of brown hair that had fallen on her face back behind her hair and cocked her head, her dark eyes fixed on Natasha, silently attentive.

"My—" Natasha struggled for the word, her eyes following the movements of a pigeon outside that's pecking at an empty chips bag. "—boyfriend and I ran into some trouble last month. We were in New York—"

"The alien invasion?"

"Yeah."

"You were there?"

"Yeah. And... something happened to him." Her mind spun to translate everything into generic, civilian terms. "Messed with his head, I think it's shock."

"I'm sorry."

"It's ok. At least we didn't get hurt."

"I'm glad. Deaths are in the thousands. Crazy stuff these days, aliens and whatever, and still not a word from the government. Are you guys doing ok here?"

"We're coping, it's good. It's just... hard to pick up where we left off." Natasha uncapped the two-liter bottle of soda, and the cap twisted off with an audible gush of air. Something let go inside her, too; she couldn't believe she was relating herself to carbonated water. "Most of the time I don't know what to do." She took a drink and felt the fizziness burn behind her nose. "And when you're standing still, any movement at all would be worth it. Doesn't matter if it's good or bad."

Lizzy dropped the rest of her pizza slice on the floor for Jackson and got up, then batted at Natasha to do the same. "I'm gonna get you home."

Natasha didn't object. Confiding this much, no matter how she had warped and tamed the story, felt like stretching her body after having curled up on a sofa for too long. The sky had tinted violet when they exited the building. She let Lizzy herd her into a banged-up, rusty white pick-up truck. The back of the truck held a dismantled child's bicycle, dirty pool noodles, and a pile of other mysterious junk; the part where they sat at smelled of a spicy sweet perfume that at first encounter made Natasha blink her eyes fast. Lizzy brushed the grocery bags off the shotgun seat and hoisted herself onto the driver's. The seat covers were pink and purple and blue, crocheted like doilies.

"Alright, address." Lizzy said.

Natasha told her. Clearly a seasoned gopher who had burrowed and tunneled through every nook of the city, Lizzy drove her there within minutes.

"Get out of my car, Natalie." Lizzy grinned and swatted at Natasha with a rolled-up grocery catalog.

The garage lights were off. The familiar take-out dinner smell hung about like usual. A faint breeze brushed her cheeks like silk, and it could come from but one source. But when she kicked off her shoes at the basement threshold and entered, it wasn't the window by the backyard that was open, but the door. Clint sat with his back leaning on one side of the door frame and his feet propped up on the other, and Lucky climbed up and down along his bent legs.

Natasha settled next to him on the carpet. She kept her lips sealed and waited for Clint to speak. If she opened her mouth first she might blurt out the wrong thing.

"You're out late."

"I spent some time with a friend." She nodded to herself. Once she got started it became easier to talk. "I hope you didn't save me dinner."

"I didn't." His smile was mischievous, relaxed, which only made her feel worse.

There was still enough light to glimpse into the garden outside. Natasha hadn't looked at that gray patch since week one, and during that time the thorns seemed to have doubled in volume, and looked shabbier than ever, like spiky worms tied into hopeless knots.

"Kiss me."

"Wha—" She barely got the word out before he pulled her to him by the back of her head and shut her up, and what he said sounded so ridiculous she laughed while his mouth was still on hers, trying to gain some control. She could have told him everything then, too, if she'd let herself.

"S.H.I.E.L.D's building new helicarriers." Clint whispered so swiftly she almost mistook it for a breath, before meeting her lips again.

She pulled away. "Where'd you hear this? S.H.I.E.L.D's e-mails?" Fury sent daily notices to keep them updated on happenings, since they've been banned from initiating any sort of contact or break-in to the agency's systems as part of the Council's requirements. If termination didn't run high on the list of consequences, she would have broken that rule long ago.

"No, Stark sent it to me this morning." Clint said. He leaned in but she turned her head aside again. This sounded twice as out-of-place as his little _kiss me _snip.

"How many helicarriers? And why is Stark involved? For tech?" she asked.

"Three carriers. And yeah, Stark's in for tech. They're calling it Project Insight."

"What clearance level?"

"Nine."

Natasha wanted to see the e-mail for herself, but Stark had probably made it a self-destructive message that scrambled itself back into untraceable code after a set amount of time. A minute, at most.

"Those carriers are war machines," Clint continued. "S.H.I.E.L.D's going to install whatever arms they can salvage from Phase Two into the Insight Carriers when they're completed.

"Stark agreed to this?" Stark, who had despised S.H.I.E.L.D's tactics from his first contamination with them, who had been the strongest voice next to Rogers to object on the ethics of Phase Two?

"It wasn't a pick-and-choose," Clint said. "He was ordered."

"Am I hearing you correctly?"

"Ordered, yes. Like everyone else in S.H.I.E.L.D."

The Avengers, right. After what had happened in Manhattan, S.H.I.E.L.D would never let Stark go without tying a red string around his ankle. He was part of the Avengers now and the Avengers was part of S.H.I.E.L.D, meaning direct command from Fury could not be unheeded. No more of the leeways and tricks that Stark played as a consultant.

Gain never came without loss, and S.H.I.E.L.D embodied that philosophy on all scales.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

**A/N: **Uh-oh, long update. School year workload is settling in and it's taking a toll on my scheduling now. If anyone remember the 2-week updates from when I wrote AOHQ, yeah, we're going back to that again, most likely.

* * *

**Previously:**

"Those carriers are war machines," Clint continued. "S.H.I.E.L.D's going to install whatever arms they can salvage from Phase Two into the Insight Carriers when they're completed.

"Stark agreed to this?" Stark, who had despised S.H.I.E.L.D's tactics from his first contamination with them, who had been the strongest voice next to Rogers to object on the ethics of Phase Two?

"It wasn't a pick-and-choose," Clint said. "He was ordered."

"Am I hearing you correctly?"

"Ordered, yes. Like everyone else in S.H.I.E.L.D."

The Avengers, right. After what had happened in Manhattan, S.H.I.E.L.D would never let Stark go without tying a red string around his ankle. He was part of the Avengers now and the Avengers was part of S.H.I.E.L.D, meaning direct command from Fury could not be unheeded. No more of the leeways and tricks that Stark played as a consultant.

Gain never came without loss, and S.H.I.E.L.D embodied that philosophy on all scales.

* * *

"You're gonna wear those?"

Natasha replaced the pair of candy-striped knee socks on its hook. "No." She squeezed through a group of teenage girls blocking the aisle and found Juliet by the front of the shop—called the _Sock Market—_ratting through a spinning shelf, yanking a pair of neon green and orange children's socks from deep inside the heap.

"_You're _gonna wear those?" Clint asked again, to Juliet this time.

"Mhmm," Juliet said.

"C'mon, we need to go." Natasha took Juliet's hand in hers and weaved themselves through the bustling crowd in the shop, bumping into bags and elbows and belly fat and whatnot, until they located the end of the checkout line, a lethargic ten feet, eight customers away from the cashier, who rang up and bagged purchases fast enough to work her hands off, constantly clipping and re-clipping the bobby pin that secured her red beret in place.

From behind, Clint tucked something into Natasha's free hand. Black, threadbare tights, with an indistinct floral pattern running along the sides that looked more like pen scribbles than flowers, according to the picture printed on the package.

"You're gonna wear those?" Natasha asked without looking back.

He snorted so hard she thought he'd choke.

The current of people outside hadn't lessened the least when they left the shop. Friday afternoon, Pier 39—a tourist haven that thrived on open-air seafood restaurants and a diverse clan of souvenir stores, and neighbored the equally famed Fisherman's Wharf—was packed to its limits. The sky had blessed them with an even wash of blue obscured by nothing but a flock of seagulls that scouted for dropped morsels. Salty, fishy sea air wafted, drafting in the pulsating smell of grilled meat, sweaty perfume, and something doughy and sweet that Juliet was migrating towards.

"Can I?" She looked to the vendor selling fresh mini donuts.

"No, maybe later." Natasha shook her head. "Florence is finding us seats at that restaurant near the entrance, so you wouldn't wanna fill yourself up."

"Why do you call her that?"

"Call who what?"

"You know."

Natasha chuckled. "Fine. _Lin _and _Navarrate _are waiting, you weird kid."

And waiting they were, Lin with her pissed-off look and Alvaro waving his location with industrial speed. Natasha squeezed Juliet's hand tighter, checked behind for Clint, and scanned for the least traumatic way to breach the tangle of chairs and tables and legs and bags and waiters and small children and shopping bags.

"Did you guys have fun?" Alvaro beamed when they all sat down.

"Could have stayed at that seashell shop longer, but that's Nat's fault." Clint glanced at her with a light smile.

"I got y'all clam chowder and garlic-roasted crab, fresh oysters and garlic fries and crab melts." Alvaro counted each item off on his fingers.

Natasha turned to Clint. Bright-eyed, he looked unfazed by the amount of food named. He _really _was getting tired of take-out dinners.

"You should have told me a week earlier so I could fast," Lin said.

The dishes came in short intervals within each other, first the clam chowder in crusty sourdough bread bowls, then the garlic fries and oysters, and Natasha didn't bother keeping track after that with her mouth full of thick, creamy soup running warm trails down her throat, the smell of seafood and cream and potatoes tickling her nose. Everyone else was in a similar state except for Juliet and Lin, who scavenged through the fries for ones that qualified their secret criteria.

"Lettie, you wanna tell everyone why today is special?" Alvaro said.

Juliet ignored him and ate another fry.

"Lettie?"

'You tell them," she said, annoyed.

Alvaro looked at her for a moment, speechless, then put on a grin and faced everyone else. "We're going to Costa Rica next Saturday."

Natasha swallowed her spoonful of soup too quickly. "Costa Rica? How long?"

"A month. So this is gonna be our last Friday together before we leave. We're gonna visit my family there, and go to the beaches."

"That sounds fun," Clint said. "You're not excited, Juliet?"

"Yeah, I am."

Natasha set her spoon down. Her tongue burned from when she ran it over the roof of her mouth, still stinging from the soup. Leaving? All the way to Central America, too? How would she keep an eye on Juliet from almost four thousand miles away?

After dinner they dove back into the souvenir stores. With Lin and Alvaro here now Natasha could leave Juliet to them so she could go off alone with Clint. He headed straight for a shop with two Buddha statues manning the sides of its door, brushed aside the cascading strings of beads that acted as a door screen and dipped a finger into the first thing that greeted him—a Feng Shui water fountain carved from rock. Water ran down from the top of the fountain through a series of halved bamboo stalks and gushed into a water wheel that stood at the edge of the small pool. White mist evaporated from the pool's surface and flashed pink and green from the colored lights on the roof.

"Coulson's wanted one of these for ages," Clint said.

"Yeah, he did."

"We should get one."

"There's no space for this stuff, Clint." Natasha guided him away by his elbow. "Let's carry on."

He did. He didn't linger at the water wheel, and instead glanced and touched everything else, reading labels out loud to her and tsking at the price tags. She examined a necklace of Tibetan prayer beads with him and laughed over the mistranslation of a Chinese proverb, and all the while she wondered how many times Clint had thought about Coulson.

She hadn't thought much about Coulson at all.

With her current life preoccupied enough to rival the one she had in S.H.I.E.L.D, her thoughts had become preoccupied, too, so that when she wasn't GPS-tracking Juliet or trying to ride out the pain from the meds, she had some other matter related to them to attend to. There was always something now. James, Lizzy, Juliet, Alvaro, Clint, Fury, Hayes, James, Lizzy, Juliet, Alvaro, Clint, Fury, Hayes, James, Lizzy, Juliet, Alvaro, Clint, Fury, Hayes. It surprised Natasha how these ordinary ordeals tired her, how vibrant yet horrifically they entangled her.

Her phone vibrated. A new text. _From James. _Clint was scrutinizing a glass display box that held half a dozen bone knives, looking at them from the sides as well as on top of the box. Natasha read the text James sent:

_-Reconsidering your offer. You still up?_

She blinked and typed back:

_-yup! what day are you thinking?_

_-tmr?_

_-A bit last-minute, but ok._

_-You don't have to_

_-It's ok. i have time._

_-ok_

Clint was returning from his explorations back to her, gripping his own phone in hand.

_-text me later, k? I'm busy, _Natasha typed.

_-yeah ok, _James replied.

_-:)_

"They lost Juliet," Clint said hurriedly. "Turned around for a second and she's gone."

"Where'd they lose her?"

"By the saltwater taffy place at the end of the pier."

Natasha opened the S.H.I.E.L.D tracking software on her phone. Juliet's name was already on the list of presets, and Natasha pressed it and waited for the satellites to do the work. Clint looked over her shoulder at what she's doing. If it wasn't for how desperately she needed to find Juliet soon, Natasha wouldn't have used the program.

"You have access?" Clint asked. S.H.I.E.L.D had ruled virtually all suspicious technology usage on their part as a protocol infraction.

"I do what I want," she said. She didn't say that it was Fury who had cleared Juliet's, and Juliet's name only, for her.

Either Juliet had _ran, _or Alvaro had been late at reporting her absence, because the satellite reports showed that she wasn't even in the pier anymore. She was on the Embarcadero roadway that rimmed the city from the ocean and the bay.

They did their best fighting against the throngs of people and made it out of the pier in minutes, ignoring the red lights on the already busy road, and found Juliet calmly walking along a sidewalk, going inland.

"Juliet!" Natasha called. Juliet stopped walking and turned around. She didn't say anything.

"Are you going back to the car?" Natasha asked.

Juliet avoided direct eye contact, her gaze wandering and fluttering like the red plastic bag blowing on the street behind her. "Yeah. I got lost."

"You didn't tell Alvaro," Clint knelt down in front of her.

Juliet shrugged and didn't say anything.

While Clint tried to get something out of her, Natasha called Alvaro. "We found her, she's not in the pier."

"What? Where is she?"

"She says she's going back to the car. I'll take her there and stay with her."

"Oh, God. Thank you so much, Natalie. Flo and I gonna be there right now."

Juliet wouldn't utter a single word about why she had left. Once back into Lin's van she curled up on the backseats like a kitten and said she was sleepy.

Alvaro looked half a ghost when he arrived at the van with Lin. Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, he looked at Juliet's small, silent form like he couldn't believe what he saw. He eased onto the seat in front of her. He took off his jacket and draped it over her. He told Lin to turn down the radio though everyone, him included, could tell that Juliet was faking her slumber.

Lin dropped him off first. Alvaro scooped Juliet up like she was made of cold brass. "Let's go home." Natasha's car window was open, and as Alvaro walked away with his burden she heard a faint:

"We wouldn't want S.H.I.E.L.D coming after you."

* * *

The next morning, Natasha hung around inside the BART station at downtown, waiting. She occasionally glanced at the concourse, where the morning influx of people paraded towards her, buffering at the turnstiles. Two patrol officers flanked each side of the turnstiles, looking half-asleep. One of them mouthed along to the subway arrival times updates.

She spotted James in a green and blue plaid button-down, rising up from the escalators directly ahead at the other end of the concourse. He saw Natasha and picked up his pace.

"Hey," he greeted, while they were still separated by the turnstiles. Natasha waved back and smiled.

They walked into the shopping center that linked the BART station, where the food court level was still sleepy. At 10:30 A.M, the mall had opened a half hour ago, and no one felt particularly hungry.

"So what's the agenda, tour guide?" James asked.

"Well, since today looks like it's gonna be hot, I thought on this ice cream place in the Mission. Really good stuff. We can take a bus up to Twin Peaks first—"

"Twin Peaks? One of the kids called them the Boob Mountains."

Natasha chuckled. "Well, they're not wrong. You get a... really nice view of the city from there. There's the Musee Mechanique by Fisherman's Wharf that's got lots of cool coin-operated antique games, if you're interested in those things."

James didn't talk much. Between walking and boarding the bus to Twin Peaks, he squeezed out a measly three sentences on his morning before meeting up with her, so Natasha spun a heap of chatter on her life to loosen him up. She grew up in Noe Valley, by the foothills of Twin Peaks. She taught English at a Chinese immigrant school in Chinatown. She kept in contact with a high school sweetheart who now worked as a bartender and would make her free drinks, discounted for her friends. All the gossip and life stories she heard during her morning coffee, she weaved into a colorful, comfortable hammock that lured James to relax and fall into. By noon they were chatting freely, though insubstantially, sitting on the grass that grew on the side of the northern peak. Now that he spoke up she could detect a hint of fine breeding in his voice, dusted beneath the occasional slang and jokes. His jokes she didn't care for, but she laughed anyway. His eyes reminded her of an eagle's, analytical and proud now that she had finally scrubbed the sodden hostility from them.

"I fell down that trail on my bike when I was twelve," Natasha said, pointing with her foot at a scrappy trail downhill. "I broke my ankle. My mom mourned for days because I scraped up half my face."

James mock-inspected her and said, "I'd say she didn't have to mourn anything."

She batted him away with a chuckle and made herself look embarrassed.

"My sister would have loved this place," James said, looking up at the clear sky. "She never did get much sunlight."

"Job limitations?" Natasha asked. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, and she leaned his way a bit.

"I never approved, but she didn't mind being cooped up in the dark all day." James plucked tufts of grass from beside his leg. "I told her, a girl with a brain like hers, she could get a job anywhere, do whatever science she wanted to do. She didn't listen. Didn't help that our mother practically worked the same job as her, so I never had any support on my side of the argument."

"Where did she work at?" Natasha's pulse did a little jump.

James didn't answer, but he turned to look at her, and his expression wasn't what he would have given her a few days ago, instead soft, softly declining the question.

Natasha laid her hand over his and squeezed gently. "What was her name?"

His knuckles worked under her palm as he made a fist. She didn't push, and stroked a popping blue vein on the back of his hand.

Afterwards they swung by the Bi-Rite Creamery in the Mission for ice cream, and though the line was achingly long, winding around the block, it went by quick, no more than fifteen minutes. One of the women who worked there, Birdy, a plump girl in her early twenties with a green bob and a sleeve of tattoos, hooted at Natasha when she walked in with James—Natasha and Juliet were regulars by now, and Birdy had seen them coming in at least three times a week. She quickly glanced over James and made talk with Natasha while scooping up a teeth-rattling sweet salted caramel cone.

"Where's lil' Jules?" Birdy asked, handing Natasha her ice cream. She turned to James. "And what can I get for you, friend?"

His choice surprised Natasha: Honey Lavender, one of the mellower, more fragrant flavors; while your tongue tasted honey and cream, the back of your throat would linger with lavender.

Were the shop not so crowded already, Natasha would have liked to stay indoors; the impromptu sun burned even hotter now. They licked the melting ice cream that dripped off the sides of the cones and waited out irregular bus intervals. At the Musee Mechanique, surrounding by the clinks and clanks of metal parts and shrill arcade music, they slotted rolls upon rolls of shiny new quarters into old wooden boxes that would move a few mechanical parts, load them a few small marbles. They had no reason to rush, but with the giddiness of the music and the dark, stale atmosphere—she felt as if she's in a factory—they naturally hurried along with zeal. And after that, when the time ticked close to 4 p.m, they made their way back downtown, to the train station which they'd part on different routes. James' hands swung by his side like a pendulum, and every now and then his right would skim Natasha's left.

They entered the shopping center they had walked out of this morning and glanced around the display windows, no particular destination in mind now. James was completely at ease, and content enough to be with her that though they'd agreed to leave by 4:30, he had no inclination to leave when that number edged closer and closer. Twice Natasha thought he would take her hand, for his had brushed hers a second too long.

They stood on the second level of the mall with their noses pressed to the glass of an empty clothing store, watching the shopkeeper inside twirl and prance between racks of clothes, while she thought no one was watching. That's when Natasha caught the voice. Lin's. Panning from behind Natasha, right to left, then settling at her left. Murmuring. Hissing. _Eight feet away. _But Lin wasn't talking to her. She leaned against the glass pane next to Natasha. She held a phone in hand.

"No, no. Barton and Romanoff doesn't change anything," Lin said into the phone. "I have a _right _to see her, and you have no right to keep her where she is. I—" At here Lin stopped, Natasha saw her shoulder tighten and sag once. "No, Agent Lukeman, they weren't in the same units."

Lin turned around to lean on her other shoulder. Before she would see Natasha, Natasha turned her face away and put her arms around James, then shoved his back onto the glass so that her face hid safely from Lin. James' arms settled on her waist, no pressure whatsoever, like a thin veil draped over her body. He began to say something, but Natasha didn't pay attention.

"What kind of treatment is this?" Lin's voice grew louder. "If S.H.I.E.L.D drops the funds on Slingshot, you wouldn't have any of these ridiculous excuses. Slingshot is too expensive. No—the hell you're not making it a permanent base; They can make her permanent rooms at the Fridge with that money, or better yet, at the T.Z."

A long drag of silence. Then a quiet, "Goodbye, Agent Lukeman."

James' soft murmurs faded in now. His hands had grown more assured about her sides, and he was talking about what a great day he had had with her. When Natasha removed her cheek from his shirt her skin was hot and itchy, and she knew, to be an unnatural red; she'd stayed in that position for far more than a minute.

"I'll see you soon," James said. His breath skidded down the top of her ear and feathered by her neck.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

* * *

**Previously:**

"What kind of treatment is this?" Lin's voice grew louder. "If S.H.I.E.L.D drops the funds on Slingshot, you wouldn't have any of these ridiculous excuses. Slingshot is too expensive. No—the hell you're not making it a permanent base; They can make her permanent rooms at the Fridge with that money, or better yet, at the T.Z."

A long drag of silence. Then a quiet, "Goodbye, Agent Lukeman."

James' soft murmurs faded in now. His hands had grown more assured about her sides, and he was talking about what a great day he had had with her. When Natasha removed her cheek from his shirt her skin was hot and itchy, and she knew, to be an unnatural red; she'd stayed in that position for far more than a minute.

"I'll see you soon," James said. His breath skidded down the top of her ear and feathered by her neck.

* * *

"Ok, ok, settle down." Lizzy clapped her hands in the air. The kids didn't listen; didn't quiet down.

"Settle. DOWN," she yelled.

Young faces automatically turned in her direction. The volunteers went around the clustered tables to stop any last bits of chatter.

"Hey, I don't like yelling, so don't make me do it again." Lizzy softened her voice, though still retaining its authoritative tone, not unlike the voice she used on Jackson when he wouldn't stop chewing her shoe. She raised a stack of construction paper above her head and asked, "everyone took home the newsletter on Friday? Who didn't?"

A 3rd grader named Tommy raised his hand. Lizzy handed him a flyer from the stack Natasha had printed out last week. "Anyone else? No? Ok, here's whats gonna happen. Do y'all remember where the party's at?"

"The cafeteria," came a wave of responses.

"Ok, big place, right? How much decorating do you think we'll need to do?"

"Twenty thousand!" Someone squeaked. The hundred or so people gathered in the gym laughed. The chatting resumed.

"Alright. Quiet down," Lizzy ordered. "Twenty thousand is a big number. We're gonna do a /lot/ of decorating."

"Can we not have class?" A girl asked, and a chorus of agreements followed.

"No, but I'll give you guys two hours everyday to work on them."

The majority cheered, a few middle-schoolers groaned and demanded early dismissal instead. With guiding hands and raised voices, the adults penned the kids back into their classrooms, where they went back to labor on their worksheets.

James walked by with Juliet, slowing to greet Natasha with a shift in his expression. More or less Lizzy's next-in-charge now, Natasha spent most of her time at the office rather than the classrooms, and catching a look at Juliet only happened at day's break and day's end, and the little intervals between classes when Juliet'd pop in with James to say hi. Always with James. When Natasha commented on it, neutrally, to Lizzy, Lizzy said, "Well, you should see yourself, Natalie. I don't think he's on your level yet," and "What's up with you and him and that kid?"

Nothing out of the ordinary, Natasha wanted to tell her. 'Ordinary' had shifted its meaning now, and James' endless talks with Juliet part of the definition, though Juliet's cold-shouldering to everyone else, particularly to Alvaro, troubled Natasha.

And it was perhaps with so many things troubling her in the day hours, that by the time she got home, rushed through dinner and her bathroom routines, she just didn't want to think. She could, but she didn't want to. She gave in to an awful lot of personal wants these days, and she tried not to think about that, either.

Wednesday came around. Hayes didn't visit Natasha this time. Fury had yet to respond to her messages on James, and also to her update about Juliet and Alvaro's trip to Costa Rica. Lizzy's unemployment benefits were meager, as they turned out, and would offer next to no help for rent, let alone necessities.

Having passed all day in and surrounded by others' unease, Natasha rushed home at first opportunity. Here it was quiet. Here she nestled next to Clint, phone in hand, and tapped away at her Tetris game while he watched a teary drama on Netflix.

Some kind of connection must have sparked between him and Lin, because Natasha had caught them multiple times in heated discussions, Clint with his computer on his lap, and Lin half-shouting at the bottom of the interior stairs, the same names as the ones on his drama blurting out of their mouths. The fact that their landlady of sorts from upstairs began making attempts at interacting with them for recreational purposes made Natasha smile every now and then. She sighed and snuggled deeper onto the couch.

The couch! That was a recent addition. Lin had intended to throw it out on account of her apartment looking cluttered, but the basement in all its nakedness needed furniture, so Natasha made sure it went nowhere else. It was a grand, almost-new thing, with cushions that scattered all inclinations to get up once she sat down, and wrapped in a red velvet that felt cool on her skin when she absently dragged a hand, or a calf, over the fabric.

The seat next to hers sprung up. Natasha stretched across the newly vacated couch, closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to the fabric, her breath blowing on the knuckles of her right hand, which she rested against her lips. Something thumped onto her extended legs. Kicking the intruding force away, she opened one eye and saw Clint, with a cushion swinging in his hand.

"You're gonna sleep here?" he asked.

"Mmmmrrrhhmmrrrrmmmm," Natasha replied into the velvet.

His shirt rustled when he bent down. He pulled the arm under her body up, then the other, and with a few prods over her back and her legs that she dimly felt, Clint somehow got himself between her and the couch and draped a heavy arm over her stomach. She felt the rise of his chest on her back, warm and slow. She squirmed and couldn't get comfortable.

"If you can't sleep like this, we'll go back to the bed," Clint said. "I don't much need sleep like you do." Her hair muffled his voice.

"Shut up." Natasha could hear a sullenness in his tone. Today must've not gone well with his check-up. Should she ask him how he's progressing? She couldn't find a way to structure the question without feeling like there were wooden pieces blocking her airway, but he felt so distant at the moment that though they were making head-to-toe contact, it felt rather like she was laying on cushions rather than a person.

"How was it with Hayes today?" she managed to ask.

"Eh."

"How was—what did she say?"

"She said, 'see you next week, Barton.'"

"Clint, you can tell me. You don't have to keep it—"

"Why does that sound so familiar?"

He wriggled from under her to take his meds, then fell on the bed as if he's forgotten about her, and he might as well be a pile of rocks until the sheets, all silent and stiff. She curled up with her arms wrapped over her knees until her legs numbed, then massaged the tingling from them and curled up again, all the time watching him.

She couldn't stand it anymore. Springing off the couch, she clambered onto the bed and lay down, on top of the blankets and all, and put her hand to the back of Clint's neck and kissed his cheek. Natasha could smell his toothpaste, could taste it at the back of her throat when she inhaled.

Then, without opening his eyes, with a swipe of his arm he scooped the blankets from under her body and tucked them over her, and when he gathered her close she couldn't fathom how she'd ever compared him to cold rocks.

If there was something amiss, Natasha didn't realize it. She clung to him as tightly as she could, and when he murmured apologies she echoed them, like a parrot who didn't know better.

The strength in his arms surrendered to sleep, and she did, too, slipping until there was only darkness.

When she realized she had forgotten her own meds, it was too late.

Natasha couldn't stop shaking, shaking until she wondered how the bed hadn't fell apart yet. The room looked unnaturally bright with the lights off and the night moonless. Her jagged breath blew cold over the sweat beading on the hollow above her lips, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

Something nudged her back. Natasha rolled around to find Clint's arm stretched straight, jerking every now and then. Was that the same jaggedness as hers in his breathing? The same cold sweat on his nose? His body twitched and she threw her arm over him. His face was raised to the ceiling, his chin jutting up so high it seemed there was a chain secured below his jaw and fixed to the ceiling, and his throat moved like he was choking.

It sickened her that her first thought was not one of concern but curiosity.

Then she was herself again, and she shook him, and shook him harder, and she couldn't tell if it was her heart beating so fast or his.

"Clint, wake up, won't you?" Natasha whispered, then louder, "Wake up!"

She bent down and pushed at his mouth with hers, but his teeth clattered and bit her lip, made it bleed. She withdrew and passed her tongue over the bloody swell. This wasn't supposed to happen. Clint wasn't supposed to...

Murmuring softly to comfort him as much as herself, Natasha went to the table with his supplies, pried open the sharps container and peeked in, leaning towards the window for moonlight. The mess of used syringes and needles looked like a shining pile of thorns. Buried below the silver was a fleck of deep, ocean blue. Natasha shook the container a few times and the blue swam to the surface.

It was a half-empty syringe.

She stared at it until her eyes stung, then she rubbed at them, removing lashes, with her knuckles until her eyes watered. Quietly, she shook the container a few more times to settle the syringe back into its disguise, closed the lid, and climbed back next to Clint, whereupon she stroked his hair while he continued to twitch and squirm and kick, on and off for hours until the sky pinked like her sleepless, smarting eyes.

* * *

Once lunch break in school arrived the next day, Natasha zipped up the stairs to the third floor to fetch her wallet. James—Brooklyn—_fine—, _was waiting for her downstairs, fidgeting and hesitant. She barely glanced around the office as she beelined for her backpack.

"Don't go out, Nat," Lizzy hollered from her work desk. "Someone here to see you!"

"Well, they're seeing me."

"Aw, don't be like that. Turn around, turn around!"

It was rude, turning her back on whoever it might be, but Lizzy's still-playful tone was chipping proper manners off of Natasha. But then the person chuckled, and Natasha whipped around at the sound.

"...Pepper."

"_Natalie_."

Pepper sat next to Lizzy on one of the kids' plastic chairs, her hands clasped and resting on her lap. Her hair had shortened by an inch or two so that it skimmed her shoulders, and apart from that, she looked the same as ever. She had on a smile that Natasha knew to not be at its full potential, too stiff at the corners of her mouth, her lips almost pinching.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. McClegan," Pepper said to Lizzy, and got up from her chair. "Do you mind if I borrow Natalie for a while? Will she be missed?"

"Oh, no no no. No problem, Ms. Potts, you go on ahead," Lizzy replied. "I really appreciate what you're doing for the people here, and I'll look out for you on the news!"

Pepper looped her arm around Natasha's and walked her down the stairs. On the first floor, Brooklyn was still waiting by the front door, and he looked half a lost puppy when he saw that Natasha had company. Without a word he walked off.

"You're the last person I expected to see, Pepper," Natasha said. "I don't believe I'm the sole thing you came for, though."

"I'm coming with Tony. He's hoping to run a large-scale project in the Bay Area, spread his clean energy campaign. I'd have come even if he was just making a mess of himself here because—"

"Actually, you'd be more inclined to come."

"Right." Pepper laughed. "But then he said, 'Oh, by the _way, _Pepper, Romanoff and Barton are hanging around the Bay,' and I knew I couldn't stay in Manhattan with the Tower repair crew."

"He must be busy, running the industry as well as working for S.H.I.E.L.D." Natasha rolled up her sleeve and showed Pepper the tracking bracelet, tapped it a few times and shook her head.

Pepper looked gravely at the bracelet and nodded. "It's working him hard." She looked Natasha in the eye. "And very... damaging."

"How's Banner?" Natasha asked.

"He's doing ok," Pepper said. "He directed most of the clean-up in the city, and organized rescue teams to find the citizens trapped under rubble or stuck in caved-in buildings. Oh, the hospitals were overwhelmed, Natasha. I went with Bruce to scout with the rescue dogs one time and passed by a museum with a torn-down wall. There were tents set up in the ruins for the injured; no vehicles could get through the debris and the people were in critical condition, they looked like they'd turn to dust if we poked them too hard! Some of the medic teams hooked up their machines to car batteries... you wouldn't believe... seeing ancient manuscripts lying next to some fella with his arm blown off... soaked in blood..."

Natasha frowned. "What was S.H.I.E.L.D doing?"

"They gave funds, and spared as much human aid as they could. The only times they picked up citizens were when they were lying next to a Chitauri body or technology, s' the way Tony put it." At that, Pepper crossed her arms tight over her chest.

They'd walked out of the school now. Pepper's car was parked a block away, and as they strolled towards it she said, "So, how have you been?"

"I'm good. Busy."

"I didn't quite expect to hear you're working in education until Tony told me."

"I didn't expect it myself, either."

"How's Clint?"

"He's alright."

"That's good."

"Yes."

Pepper turned to face her. "Natasha, I don't know how many people you've said that to, but I don't want to hear it. Tony's still coping. He's _enjoying _S.H.I.E.L.D's demands because it keeps him occupied from himself. That's not normal. So I know damn well that there's something going on with Clint. And with you. Don't pent it up on yourself, _please._"

And that was the end of that. When they reached the car, Hogan was already there, shuffling the radio stations. He glanced at Natasha and muttered h'llo, Ms. Romanoff.

"Just—drive, Happy," Pepper said. "I don't care where. Just get us moving. Thank you."

While Hogan drove Pepper continued to chat. "I heard you're living with another S.H.I.E.L.D agent?"

"She's retired, yeah. She lives upstairs from me and Clint."

"Huh."

"Oh, and we got a puppy."

"A _puppy!"_ Pepper smiled. "Well, I did something exciting too. I picked out the colors for your rooms just yesterday; I hope you like blue."

"My _what_?"

"Tony's renovating Stark Tower as a base for the Avengers so that each of you gets one floor. He's been going nuts customizing layouts and furniture."

The Avengers. They considered her an Avenger! Clint, too? And now Stark wanted to make a communal home out of his tower?

"It's for emergencies, right? Like a meeting place?" Natasha asked.

"Sure." Pepper shrugged. "Bruce is making himself at home on his level. Steve, I haven't heard from once. Thor is obviously out of reach. And you and Clint, I know—" at here she smiled, faintly, "—will probably never leave a traceable mark in your quarters even if you guys did decide to move in, so I guess this is more of an entertaining project for Tony than anything."

"I'm sorry. I do like blue, though." Natasha put her hand on top of Pepper's and squeezed.

Hogan drove them back to Pepper's hotel, one of the high-ends at the edge of downtown. Her and Stark's suite was painted a royal blue, bigger than the classrooms Natasha walked in everyday, and almost as messy. Pepper hurried to toss half a dozen empty water bottles into the recycling as soon as she turned the key to the door. Hogan stepped forth to help her, but she shooed him away. "That's sweet of you, Happy, but I'm ok."

After she'd rid a sofa of its clutter, Pepper made Natasha sit down with her and turned on a fifteen-inch tablet. With a hover and lift of her palm above the screen, Pepper coaxed out a hologram of the Stark Tower, and began to show Natasha the various repairs, renovations, and the Avengers' new headquarters. Each floor was catered to the individual's needs, and Pepper pointed out some of them: Banner's walls were specially fortified with Stark's newest composite materials; Clint's had a retractable balcony that reached ten feet into midair, and flying targets were to be installed so he could shoot at whatever distance and position he wanted; Natasha's had a network of tunnels that went through to the other floors, stretching all the way to the top of the tower. There was a blinking S.H.I.E.L.D icon on one of the walls. She asked Pepper what it was.

"Oh." Pepper raised a hand to her chin. "That's... I remember Tony saying he wanted to make that into a weapons rack inside the wall, so it's like a little elevator that he can... send new tech from S.H.I.E.L.D up to you that he thinks you'll like, but I'm sure it can transport other things, too."

After that they sat around a while longer in silence. Natasha couldn't find a topic that needed discussion, and Pepper, content with the quiet, and uncorked a bottle of wine that they drained between the two of them.

"Do you ever think about how—" Pepper paused to watch her glass wink in the ceiling light. "—your friends have no idea who you are?"

"Who? Liz?"

"Yeah, McClegan. And the other ones I haven't seen. You ever think about it?"

Natasha set her empty glass onto the table before her, uncrossed her legs, and stretched. "No, but sometimes, when they mention the Avengers, or Manhattan, it does feel weird. Here." She tapped a finger on her breastbone.

"If they ever found out you're one of the Avengers, imagine..." Pepper smiled to the ceiling. A dreamy pink shimmered over her cheeks; she had drunk most of the wine. "They'll either love you or hate you."

"It wouldn't matter, it they found out."

"Oh, it wouldn't?"

"No."

"Hmm." Pepper took an imaginary sip at her empty glass. "I gotta start thinking in your perspective."

Hogan knocked and came in then, to announce that he'd be going to pick up Stark, who was thirty minutes away in Oakland. Natasha stood to leave, too. The clock on the wall read 4 pm.

"So soon?" Pepper said tightly.

"Yeah, I have plans." Natasha felt another buzz in her back pocket. "How long are you staying in San Francisco?"

"Until Sunday."

Sunday. That's three days away.

"I'll be around, we can meet up again," Natasha said.

Pepper gave a small smile and nodded.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers, along with everything else associated with Marvel._**

A/N: Happy Indigenous People's Day! Not much to say, but if there are buffers in posting for the next few chapters, (probably delaying by no more than three days) it's because I'm gonna try to get in some studying for the SAT next month. If any of you are taking it this year, too, good luck!

* * *

**Previously:**

Hogan knocked and came in then, to announce that he'd be going to pick up Stark, who was thirty minutes away in Oakland. Natasha stood to leave, too. The clock on the wall read 4 pm.

"So soon?" Pepper said tightly.

"Yeah, I have plans." Natasha felt another buzz in her back pocket. "How long are you staying in San Francisco?"

"Until Sunday."

Sunday. That's three days away.

"I'll be around, we can meet up again," Natasha said.

Pepper gave a small smile and nodded.

* * *

The bombard of texts Natasha received wasn't from Brooklyn, but Lizzy. Apparently, back at the school, the faculty had decided to throw their own little party before it was the students' turn tomorrow. The little meeting was scheduled at Ocean Beach, on the western edge of the city, and according to Lizzy's rambles in her texts, the beach supposedly had a wonderful view of the sunset dipping into the Pacific Ocean.

Pepper offered a Stark car for Natasha's traveling from the hotel's garage. Judging by the time of Lizzy's invites, the party had long started without her. Pepper kissed her cheek and hugged her, then sent her on her way with a key fob and a "Tell Clint I said hi."

The car Natasha parked at a pebble-y parking lot, then she headed for the outcrop of rocks that Lizzy had mentioned, a three-minute walk away. A group of fifteen or so scattered around the shards of boulders, like meerkats that came out to scout around their home. The sun hadn't set yet, but the figures were beginning to silhouette around the edges.

"Oooh, girl," said one of the official teachers, Jane. "Sun about to set without you." She held a smoldering cigarette in hand, and smirking, flicked the ashes onto the rocks.

Natasha scooted next to Lizzy, who sat with a can of beer on her lap, and unlidded the cooler beside her to hand Natasha her own can. Crackle and hiss. Natasha brought the can to her lips and sipped.

"This website I'm reading says that people who jump off bridges always find a solution to their problems just when they start to drop," said José, another one of the teachers, holding his phone so close to his face the reflection shone a bright white rectangle on his glasses.

"That's unfortunate." Came a reply.

"Shows how important suicide prevention is, don't it?" Came another.

"I don't believe it," Natasha chipped in. "Folks fall fast; no time to think. By the time they get it figured out they're probably half-dead and too deep in trouble."

"Was that a pun?" Someone laughed.

A few chuckles went up, then the topic was abandoned. The conversation, however, only livened.

"You know the Starks, Natalie?" Jane asked. "Liz here told me all about it. You thick with Pepper Potts?"

"We're friends," Natasha said. Jackson was circling around her feet, tail wagging. She picked him up into her lap and stroked his gray head.

"You wanna..." Jane swished her cigarette in the air. The smoke from it smelled a hint of flowers, like dried roses. "Maybe elaborate for us? I ain't never known nobody who's tight with the Starks."

A couple of hoots and encouragements went up. Natasha looked around. Brooklyn was sitting on the sand in the rapidly elongating shade of an overhanging rock with José and his girlfriend Michelle, all either smoking or handling a can of Bud Light The shadow blocked his expression, but his eyes she still saw, shining and directed her way.

"I worked in the Industries, just before I got into education," Natasha said.

"You worked in _Stark Industries?_" Michelle leaned forward. "What department?"

"Legal," Natasha answered, quite unconsciously.

The questions went on, and she was thankful when they gradually shifted the focus from her to Stark. How often did she see him? Is it true that he charged his chest-battery-thing with an iPhone charger if he was desperate? What's he doing in San Francisco? Donating to the 25,000 LED lights that would decorate the Bay Bridge in 2013? Why not fix the streetlights instead?

After a half-hour or so the conversation turned to Jane's rose-scented cigarettes. She tossed out her pack for the smokers in the group to try, intensifying the sickly-perfume-y smoke that even the fierce sea breeze failed to diffuse. And those were strong winds, blowing sand three feet off the beach, and cold enough to sting her cheeks.

Then the sun began to land, dyeing the sky pink and orange, and the small-talk ceased all together. Lizzy dropped her empty beer can into the cooler and took out another from their dwindling stock. One hand mindlessly texting Clint, the other pressing into cold rock, Natasha reconsidered what Pepper said earlier, about what these people would think if they ever found out who she was. Maybe it would matter to her what they thought, and though she'd never allow herself to resort to consuming regrets, there wouldn't be anything to keep her from thinking, _what a month I've had with these guys. _

"Nat, where'd you park your car?" Lizzy whispered.

"The parking lot just up the hill," Natasha whispered back. "Why?"

"You can't park there after dark," Lizzy said. "Go go go, go now before they tow your nice Stark car away." She took a black trash bag from the bottom of the cooler and began stuffing the beer cans into them. "Toss these for us, willya? Beach patrol's a pain so we better destroy evidence."

Natasha went on her way and dumped the cans at the nearest garbage can, then half-jogged to where she'd parked and drove her car into the neighborhood a quarter mile off. Rubbing her arms to gather warmth, she headed back, surprised at how fast the sun had retreated in the time she was away.

She picked up the call from Lizzy. "What's up?"

"We moved to a bonfire spot north of the rocks we were at, come on up. Do you want Brooklyn or Chloe to come get you?"

"I can manage, Liz."

Natasha could've spotted them from miles away. The group had lit a small fire that looked like a flickering star from the distance. She quickened her pace, kicking sand into her shoes, and when she got close she could smell burning marshmallows. A few pieces of driftwood served as seating around the fire, and people were either sitting on them, or squatting by the edge of the flames. Someone had taken out a portable speaker and was shuffling through a line of 80's hits.

Natasha sat down between Lizzy and Brooklyn and watched the fire. He still hadn't talked to her all night, ever since she went out with Pepper. He sat slightly angled away from her, staring the setting ball of fire in the sky straight on and ignoring the fire by his feet. She could tell from his posture that he wanted to be anywhere but here right now, with sand blowing into the creases of his clothes and the roar of the waves and the music fragmenting any idea of peace.

Lizzy rested her head on Natasha's shoulder and sighed. "Hey, since this /is/ supposed to be a good-bye party, just wanted to let everyone know that you all were a lot better than I'd expected, coming here."

"Oh, Lizzy McClegan. Always so vague," Jane said. "What's 'a lot better' supposed to mean?"

"A lot better than worse," Lizzy answered, tossing a chunk of charred marshmallow at her.

They talked about what they'd do after school officially ended tomorrow. Jane spoke up first, declaring on a lone-wolf trip around Europe by train before the school year began again at the high school she worked at. José and his girlfriend Michelle would continue their two-man team at other volunteer work around the city. A few more said they'd take it easy at home before school season came around, like Jane said. Lizzy said she'd go job-hunting and received a few sympathetic encouragements. Brooklyn didn't say anything. When it came around to Natasha she said she didn't know what she'd do.

"Girl, you can't be Liz," Jane said. "I know you don't got a lazy bone in you while Liz has skeleton of them. Why you driftin' when you got Pepper Potts behind ya?"

"Getting pulled in with big names aren't all fun, Jane," Natasha said. "I've been the interrogated subject ever since you guys found out."

"I'm sorry."

Natasha transferred Jackson from her lap onto Lizzy's and got up, brushing the dog fur off her jeans. "I'm going for a walk."

"Wha?" Lizzy frowned. "The sun's almost there. Give it ten more minutes, c'mon."

Natasha ignored her, stuck her hands in her pockets and walked further up north; human company had grown bland for her. From what she's heard all night, everyone had a pretty good idea on where they'd go after tomorrow. After all, for them, volunteering was just that: a temporary vocation.

The sky was turning burgundy and navy now, though a bit muddy not exactly the shades that were acceptable on postcards. A high tide; the waves crashed louder than ever. Natasha took off her shoes and walked along the line of sea foam a while. When her toes began to hurt from the freezing water, she retreated to the damp sand, covered in crushed sea shells that she didn't feel until her feet had thawed.

The movement she's been taking note of out the corner of her eye neared, but she walked on, pretending to not notice. A moment later a cold hand tentatively slipped into hers. "Everyone's about to leave," Brooklyn said softly.

"And you?" Natasha asked. "Are you leaving?"

"I'll stay a bit longer."

They walked for a few minutes in silence. The sun was below the sea line now, the sky inked. Brooklyn took her closer by the waist, and his warmth provided her with some advantage against the rapidly decreasing temperatures.

"I'm leaving on Saturday," he said.

"What? Where to?" Natasha injected a shot of lingering into her tone.

"Just— I have—" His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed forcefully. "I have some business to take care of, but I'll come back."

Business? And just so that it happened to collide with Juliet's departure date? Brooklyn had grown soft with her; the him a week ago would have left without a word to anyone. Natasha nodded to herself and looked away. "Guess I'm not eligible to know."

"No, Natalie, it's not that—"

"You told me your sister left for her job without an explanation, and what are you doing now?"

"I'm not getting myself _killed._"

"And I don't like your equivalent of it, whatever that is." Natasha tried to yank his hand off of her.

He let go easily enough. "What about you? You know, I thought your name sounded familiar when I first met you. Thought I heard it somewhere. Then I saw you prancing 'round with Pepper Potts today and it clicked. You were Stark's assistant, weren't you?"

Those few brief days by Stark and Pepper's side flashed in her memory, and she realized that up to this point, she hadn't considered what and how much the media had shown of her. It wasn't hard to guess, anyway, with the reproachful gaze Brooklyn was considering her with.

"Does that matter so much to you then?" she asked.

He took a step closer to her, and without the usual slouch of his posture it felt like he'd grown a feet taller, his breath hitting her forehead. "If you're going to keep comparing me to my sister, yes."

"Why? At least she told you where she went; I kind of wish she was here right now instead of you."

Brooklyn laughed coldly. "Do you, now?"

"Why not? I bet she's—"

"_Stop going on about Matisse!_"

_Matisse. _The name didn't catch Natasha by surprise, but the confirmation of it did, so much that she didn't quite register when Brooklyn leaned in and kissed her, the force and heat of it like hot rocks to the frigid air. _Matisse_, then. Matisse James Jansson. Juliet's mother, as Fury had informed, the day he entrusted Juliet's close surveying on Natasha. _The man kissing her was Juliet's goddamn uncle!_

* * *

No work the next day; Lizzy insisted that Natasha leave the work of preparation for her. "Just come around seven p.m to make sure I did everything right since we get the kids coming in at eight."

After trucking Lucky back to the Animal Control for a routine check-up, Natasha spent the morning outside the building with Clint, annoying each other with constant shuffling of the stations on Lin's van. Clint was feeling gloomy, and she didn't blame him. Watching him interact with Lucky at home, he looked like he'd forgotten that the puppy didn't belong to him with his over-the-top devotion. Visiting the Animal Control today for him must have felt like ripping off a band-aid and tore at his skin.

"Will you _please, _stop messing with the volume?" Clint sighed and swatted her hand away from the controls, then attempted to rest his head on the steering wheel. The stereo was blasting at its max volume, and neither of them made a move to adjust it, knowing that whoever who did so would get the last blame. The bass boomed so loud Natasha's teeth rattled.

She reached over and stroked his hair; dragged her fingers over his scalp. Clint didn't respond. Exasperated, she pried his cheek off the steering wheel and made a point about running her thumb over the dark, blotchy skin under his eyes.

"Get up," she ordered. "Get some sleep in the back."

He obeyed with an unexpected lack of protests and half-crawled, half-clambered to the backseats, while Natasha gave in and turned the radio down to a whisper. He gave her snark for it, and she told him to hush.

They went silent. Outside their tightly shut windows, leaves and a paper bag dragged over the pavement, a woman in rags snarled and stomped, another woman bundled in layers of wool sweaters chased after a girl that had strayed off. Natasha looked back at Clint. She could hear his breathing now, like heavy little sighs.

"Natasha?" he said after some time.

"Hmm?"

"Come here."

She wriggled front her seat to his and crouched down in the cramped space.

"Have you talked to Lin recently—"

"Oh, please." Natasha cut him off. "Close your eyes a while."

"Ok, but just give me a moment. I haven't seen her often lately."

"She's ignoring you? Not surprised."

"No, no." Clint reached up and traced a line from the tip of her nose, to her mouth, where she kitten-licked his finger, and down to her chin and under her jaw. "She doesn't go out as much anymore. She just stays cooped up taking phone calls."

"Mmm. With S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"You knew?" His gaze, lowering to her lips, perked up with surprise.

"I know everything." Natasha shifted to rest on her knees, crossed her arms and rested them on the seat he lay on.

"Who's the girl Lin's talking about, then?" His breath mingled with hers; she could feel it hot at the roof of her mouth. She lowered until their lips met, and moved quite hard against him, but he was soft and slow and gliding like velvet, hands outlining her collarbone and dipping down, pulling at her shirt...

"I'll know soon enough," she broke away to whisper. "Next time you hear her on the phone, make a recording, please."

"I have five." He smirked and pulled her face down to his, tugged on her arm until she straddled and climbed on top of him. The seats were cramped and threatened to tip them over, so she kept one leg on the floor to steady herself. Her skin sensitized where his hand teetered at the hem of her shirt, and blushed with heat when his palm came in contact with the nakedness beneath, almost painfully. She touched his chest, that heaved; his arms, that tensed; his shoulders, that rolled; his neck, his throat, his jaw, the muscles there that worked like an oiled machine. At the underwire of her bra his fingers retreated to dance over her ribs, and impatiently she shoved his elbow until she could feel her shirt straining at her back, and a damp, heavy sigh that she wasn't sure if belonged to him or her escaped as his hand cupped her softness.

She lay there with him, stroking and trembling, not quite sure at what point should she stop. Clint decided for her. When her hand began wandering lower down his hips he guided it back and massaged her palm with his thumb. The lust that suffocated them smelled like soggy, matted fur mixed with sharp perfume; a thick scent that trapped her like glue. She couldn't afford to be trapped at the moment. He couldn't, either.

Natasha ceased what she did and put her cheek to his chest, and listened to his heartbeat slow down. She felt her own heart in her abdomen, hot and throbbing, and below that, between her legs, she'd dampened and warmed. From the way she positioned herself on top of him she felt something poke at her thigh, and it was definitely not his belt buckle.

* * *

_Hours later. 7:30 P.M  
_

Almost 300 people came.

Parents, friends, passersbys snooping in when they saw the "free food" sign at the school's front gate; the number shot pass what Natasha had expected to come today. An entire week's hard work of balloons and paper garlands draped and twisted around the campus, turning it into a colorful jungle. A few kids she was close with dragged their relatives to introduce to her.

The event went smoothly, much to Lizzy's relief. She looked well at ease with the throngs of people who populated the place, so Natasha left her to find Alvaro, who was laughing and joking with a group of women at one of the rowdy cafeteria tables. Juliet was all drooping eyes and wary shuffles, sitting like a floppy stuffed animal next to him. Of Brooklyn there wasn't a sign.

Natasha came up to greet them. "How are you?" she asked Alvaro.

"Aw, I'm doin' good, man."

"Packed for your trip tomorrow?"

"Of course!"

A delivery guy came in with his shoulder stacked a foot high with pizza boxes, and a swarm of people closed in around him immediately like ants. A flicker of interest entered Juliet's eyes and she, too, joined the pizza attack. Natasha smiled, shook her head, and headed outside for fresh air.

Brooklyn was walking in when she'd just exited the front gates. He was dressed in all black, except for a bright red necktie that stood out like a target on his chest. His blond hair and pale complexion dulled to a whisper of white against the heavy black. When he saw Natasha he pulled her aside against the squeaky gate and kissed her a solid two minutes.

"You're nervous," she commented.

He smiled, nervously. "I'm not nervous, you're just making me flustered."

He kissed her again as if to reenforce his defense, letting his hand stay at the small of her back. There was an urgency in his contact that Natasha didn't encourage, and she pulled away first and told him to go upstairs without her, telling him she needed space when he asked why. He probably thought she was sulking at the prospect of him "leaving for business" tomorrow, but she had something else on mind.

She located his car a few blocks away and circled it, then took out her phone.

"Director Fury," she said. "If you're not sending a S.H.I.E.L.D car, I'm gonna slash his tires."


End file.
